Living for Living's Sake
by WizardWriting
Summary: Hermione Granger, a recent transfer from France, is not a fan of Quidditch. Thus, she is confused about her feelings over Harry Potter, Seeker of the English National Quidditch team.
1. The Quidditch Player

**Living for Living's Sake**

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**A/N**: I give my gratitude to It's Just Not Flowing's story, "Of Quidditch Pants and Persuasion" which was the foundation of which this story was based upon. I hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 1: The Quidditch Player

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Hermione loved Mondays. Really, she did. She thought it to be a fresh start to the upcoming week no matter how rotten the past one was. And while many of her coworkers looked as if they rolled out of bed and simply happened upon the Ministry, she believed professional appearances spoke volumes and helped with internal promotions. After all, she was currently a secretary, a position she didn't mind but had every intention of vacating at the earliest opportunity to pursue a more compelling career.

Taking into her office, she set her satchel atop her desk, and waved her wand at the window. The curtain parted down the middle and furled itself off to the sides, giving her a view of Montmarte Place Cachée under an early sunrise. She smiled at the pink and purple clouds that canopied Place Cachée as she shrugged off her coat. As it flew into her wardrobe, she sat down, tapping her wand against the topmost drawer of her desk. It barreled open like a train on its tracks and a folder jumped out of it, belly-flopping open on her desk.

However, before she could get a start on her morning's work, she saw a figure pass by her door. She waited, her eyes skirting the outside office area where cubicles huddled around each other. She quickly surmised it wasn't one of her co-workers for surely they would've greeted her with a _Good morning_ or _Bonjour_ as they did every day. No, this was someone who wasn't a department regular. But she wondered who it was so early in the morning. She always had, at least, an hour or so to herself before everyone started trickling in.

The figure then knocked on the door next to hers. A heavy silence followed before the figure tried again, louder this time. Hermione speculated over whether or not this figure, whoever he or she was, saw her open door when they passed by it. She gambled on the probability they certainly hadn't or else the figure would've stopped in and asked her if whoever they were looking for was in yet. Then again, the office next to hers belonged to-

A third knock rattled Hermione, it being so barbaric she wondered whether this person ate his or her food with a fork and knife. She huffed as she planted her palms on her desk and pushed herself upwards. There was absolutely no way she was going to let this oaf disrupt her morning, especially when she had it all planned out. She had a schedule to stick to, damn it!

She tiptoed to her door and poked her head around the frame. A young man stood in front of her boss's office, looking down at the watch on his wrist and frowning. He then sighed as he looked around. From what she could see, he was wearing a grey T-shirt and black joggers. The black hair on his head was extremely messy, as if he woke up with it and couldn't be bothered to do anything to tidy it up. He also wore round-rimmed glasses, it windowing his bright green eyes.

"Excuse me," Hermione called out to him. The young man looked over at her curiously. "Can I help you?"

"D'you work here?" the young man asked, pointing a finger at the floor.

Hermione inwardly scoffed. "Would I be offering my help if I didn't?"

"Er, I guess not," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh, I was wondering when Ludo Bagman was going to come in." He took a couple of steps forward, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Mr Bagman has taken a week-long holiday to France," Hermione answered.

The young man's brows pulled forward across his head, digging plow lines deep into it. "Are you his secretary?"

She nodded. "Whatever you need, I'm sure I can be of assistance."

"Well, Ludo never got back to me about the suggestion I made on the Quidditch complex," he said.

"Do you mean The British and Irish Quidditch League Complex?" Hermione asked for clarification.

"Yeah, that's it," the young man said with a small smile. Hermione thought him to be rather fanciable when he did this.

She waved him into her office as she said, "Unfortunately, the proposal has run into some complications."

"Complications?" he repeated. "What kind?"

"One primary one, actually," Hermione said, indicating for the young man to take the seat across the desk from her. When he did, she explained, "It was due to budget concerns. Mr Bagman's request for funding was denied by the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

"What for?" She could tell the young man was irritated upon learning of this new development.

"He didn't think it was a smart use of funds," Hermione replied. "He also argued that nothing was wrong with the current setup-,"

"Everything's wrong with the current setup," the young man grumbled.

"-and, if you ask me, it seems as if the head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports isn't exactly fond of Mr Bagman," Hermione continued as if there had be no interruption.

"Not many people are," the young man complained. Looking defeated, Hermione almost felt sorry for him because of the fact. She supposed sharing a bit of hope with him didn't go against her job requirements.

"He plans to appeal to the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic," Hermione said. "Mr Bagman, that is." The effect, as she expected, was instantaneous: optimism looped the man's eyes and a wide smile flooded his face.

"When's he going to do that?"

"As soon as he gets back from France," Hermione answered. "He's actually put me in charge of the revised proposal." She tried not to sound too haughty when she said this, but she considered this to be a huge opportunity to advance her career within the Ministry. Of course, that would be wholly dependent on if the motion was passed.

"What's wrong with the original draft?"

"Funding," Hermione said simply. "The previous bid for the complex would use up a majority of the Department of Magical Games and Sports' budget. The Senior Undersecretary would reject the project outright if he saw how much it would cost the department."

"Is there are any way around that?" The young man rested his right ankle on top of his left knee.

"The financing would have to come from somewhere else," Hermione said, "or, if that's not possible, the budget for the complex would have to be severely diminished."

"But the space needed only works with how much money was requested," the young man countered.

"I understand that, however, it's just not practical. Funding for the department is allocated between its divisions equally. It would be improper for the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters to take any necessary money from the Official Gobstones Club and the Ludicrous Patents Office to use for our own personal gain."

"What if they loaned the money out? They could then be paid back with interest!"

"Excuse you, but we are not a bank," Hermione affirmed. She wanted to kick this man in the shins for being so obtuse.

He scowled at the floor as he drummed his fingers against his leg. After a minute, he said quietly to himself, "I suppose I could pinch in a good amount. Wood could as well. I'll have to ask some of the other-,"

"I beg your pardon," Hermione interrupted, "but are you suggesting you're going to pay for the complex with your own money?"

"Mine, and a few others," he nodded.

Hermione felt like laughing, but managed to hold it in. "I suppose you have one of the bigger accounts at Gringotts, then?"

"Actually, I'm pretty sure they're all the same size," he said, completely missing the sarcasm.

Hermione tried again, though this time, jailed the irony. "I mean, do you honestly think you and a few others are going to be able to pay for an entire complex? Did you not see how much it costs?"

The young man shrugged. "You make a lot playing Quidditch."

This made Hermione pause. A curious thing to as very little baffled her into complete silence. Yet, this man's admission surely did, and quite easily, on top of that. Scrutinizing him more directly, Hermione now saw more of him than she did upon her first inspection: his shoulders were wide, and his biceps moved easily under the sleeves of his shirt; he had a clearly defined chest that stretched down into a flat stomach; and had narrow hips. To put it simply, he looked good, very good, in fact. And though she thought it to be shallow to judge someone based on their outward appearance (_Books not looks! _she used to tell herself at school), this was a particularly special scenario. Hermione tried to keep from salivating.

"You're a Quidditch player?" she asked.

He arched a brow at her. "I thought you knew?"

"And how was I supposed to know that?"

"Everyone here does," he said. "This is the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters."

"I'm well aware of where we are," Hermione snapped. She didn't at all appreciate how belittled she felt with this young man's words. "But it isn't an obligation to be a fan of Quidditch to work here."

"I'd imagine anyone who did work here and wasn't a fan of Quidditch would find their work a bit dull."

A small smile wormed its way across Hermione's face though it didn't reach her eyes. "Contrary to that absurd belief, I enjoy the work I do very much."

"So you're not a fan of Quidditch?" The young man looked genuinely surprised.

"If you must know," she huffed, "I'm not much into flying, and thus, not a fan of Quidditch in the slightest."

The young man's eyes grew wide at her admission. "Not a fan of-," he began, then stopped, shaking his head as if trying to clear it of Hermione's seemingly nonsensical acknowledgement that had cobwebbed inside it.

Hermione pursed her lips at him, annoyed beyond belief this young man was playing her like a fool just because she didn't like flying or Quidditch. She hadn't been around Quidditch players often enough to conclude if they were brilliant and masters in the art of flying, or if they were brainless, one-eyed trolls who could barely string coherent sentences together. She thought this young man was more of the latter. As it was, he did believe the other divisions in the department would be more than willing to lend their money out, and that they could be paid back with the interest. What an asinine thought to have!

"Yes, well, isn't it a shame we don't all like Quidditch," Hermione said dryly.

"It's not that," the young man shook his head. "It's more of the fact you're not into flying."

"I have a perpetual fear of heights," Hermione said rather shrilly. She was getting worked up and it was barely seven in the morning. If she kept this pace up, she'd have to bow out of work early which would only increase how much she would have to get done tomorrow.

"The only way to overcome your fear of flying is to keeping flying," the young man offered.

"I don't have any need to fly, thank you very much. I'm more than content to keep my feet firmly on the ground."

"Suit yourself," he replied offhandedly. His indifference had Hermione itching to break his glasses. She would love to see him try to fly around a Quidditch pitch without them.

"Anyways, do you have anything else to bother me about?" she asked him rudely. "I'm rather busy."

"So early in the morning, are you?" He made a point to look at his watch.

"I'm an early riser," she said.

"So am I," he traded back.

"Oh, I know," Hermione nodded. "Why else would you be here if it wasn't to distract me from my work?"

"I'm not sure you remember but I didn't come to see you specifically. I came to see Ludo. And I think you're undervaluing the idea for a Quidditch complex, and that bothers me."

"I'm not undervaluing anything," Hermione said angrily. "I just find your visit completely irrational!"

"How?" She noticed the young man's voice had risen considerably.

Before she answered, Hermione forced herself to take deep, calming breaths. The last thing she needed was a shouting match with a stranger so early in the morning.

"You could've sent in your question through owl post. I would've gotten back to you before the end of the day."

Though his jaw was tense, the young man seemed to let out a breath he had been holding in. Hermione assumed he had his own calming mechanisms to employ under heated situations.

"I was up anyway," he let out, leaning against the back of the chair. "Quidditch practice," he added on as an explanation.

"At this time?"

"No, at five." This surprised Hermione. "We go for an hour until six."

"Why so early?"

"Because there are only two pitches for thirteen teams," he said. "It's mad trying to schedule a practice since every other team needs to practice too. This is why we need individual pitches for each of us. That way, there isn't any fuss over who gets to use which pitch for however long they want to."

"Listen, I know the problems the British and Irish Quidditch League have. I mean, I read the proposal for the Quidditch complex half a dozen times. The only setback it faces is funding. Well, that and the fact Mr Bagman isn't well-liked by higher-ups but that's a wholly different matter. If it means anything, if it were up to me, I'd give the approval."

The young man managed half a smile. "And why's that? I thought you didn't like Quidditch."

"I don't," Hermione confirmed. "But I do like practicality. And for thirteen teams to share two places to practice isn't exactly reasonable."

The young man nodded in agreement, and any resentment she felt towards him before drained away. It was like they found common ground, a place where judging one another and their ideas wasn't part of their unspoken about treaty. Perhaps they found a way to turn the corner and had an understanding about each other that wasn't there several minutes prior. And just a subtle nod of his head was all it took.

"By the way, what team do you play for?" she asked.

"Puddlemere United," he answered instantly.

She looked at him skeptically. "You're not the Seeker by any chance, are you?"

His brows pulled together. "How d'you know about the Seeker position?"

"Honestly, just because I don't like Quidditch doesn't mean I'm oblivious to it," she rolled her eyes. "I went to a school full of boys who talked about Quidditch non-stop!"

"Hogwarts, right?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but paused instead because it was then that she realized she had not introduced herself to this young man in front of her, and he didn't do the same with her. It was very unlike Hermione not to acquaint herself to someone she hadn't yet met and she didn't understand why it slipped her mind that morning. She ran upon two possibilities of what may have hindered their accommodation: she didn't expect their conversation to last as long as it did, or to put it simply, the opportunity just didn't present itself. In her opinion, the first was just as likely as the second.

"I actually didn't go to Hogwarts."

"Really?" When she nodded, he asked, "Were you taught at home, then?"

"No," she shook her head. "I studied at Beauxbatons in France."

"So you're French then?" He asked this as if he was gently probing her like one would lightly poke an old cat to see if it was still alive.

Hermione laughed as she ducked her chin. She didn't know why but she suddenly felt rather shy in front of this stranger. "Um, well, I guess you could say that. But I'm originally from Britain. London, to be exact."

"London's a big place," the young man held out his arms as if to show just how big it was.

"West Brompton," she said. "My mum and dad moved back there during the summer."

"So, pretty close to here? What is it, like a couple of miles away?" When Hermione nodded, he asked, "Do you live with them?"

"No," she replied. "I don't even live in London. It's much too busy for me."

"Where'd you settle down?"

"A village in West Country," she said. "Godric's Hollow."

The young man's mouth dropped open as he stared at her, his hands gripping the arms of the chair tightly. "You're joking."

"I assure you I'm not because I haven't any reason to," she sniffed. Hermione couldn't help but be a bit offended this man thought she'd have any time for such comedy.

"The thing is, is that I live in Godric's Hollow," the man said, palming his chest. This greatly surprised Hermione. "I have for the past several years now." He shook his head in astonishment, a large smile on his face. "I've never seen you, though."

"I moved there at the beginning of the month, that's why. I live in the northeastern corner." Hermione wasn't sure why she was telling a complete stranger this, especially one that lived in the exact same village as her. For all she knew, this person could be a madman, one who was a complete nutter. The odds weren't in favor of him being a total loony, but still, one could never be too sure.

"Where are you, then, in the village?"

"The far west," he said, arching his arm out to the side. "A good distance away from you."

"Godric's Hollow hasn't always been as large as it is, has it?" she asked.

"No," the man shook his head, leaning back in his chair so the front two legs came off the ground. "It's expanded recently. Not sure if I like it to be honest with you."

"I do," Hermione said. She elbowed her desk and elegantly rested her chin atop her fingers. "It's very quaint and quiet. I prefer it to London any day."

"Sure, but it was quieter before."

Hermione shrugged. "It still doesn't bother me. I mean, there is such a thing as a village being too small."

The man seesawed his head to the left and right as if trying to decide if he agreed with that sentiment or not. As he did this, Hermione saw a scar shaped like a lightning bolt that zigzagged down his head. This, then, answered her question of who exactly this stranger was.

"Why Godric's Hollow?" he asked next. "Seems a bit random if you ask me."

"It's not," Hermione defended. "There's so much history there!"

"And you like history, do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," she nodded.

"You would've done well in History of Magic, then," he grinned.

"In fact, I did do well in History of Magic," she returned easily. "They offer it at Beauxbatons," she added when she saw confusion mask the man's face. "But Godric's Hollow is where the Peverells were born and buried; where Albus Dumbledore had once lived and where he met Gellert Grindelwald; it's even where Bowman Wright was born! He forged the first Golden Snitch in the Middle Ages!"

The young man's confusion turned to amusement. "Are you sure you're not a Quidditch fan? I mean, how else would you know of Bowman Wright? I bet you half the team doesn't even know who he is!"

"Once again," Hermione said, smiling despite herself, "I don't like Quidditch. I just like to read…a lot."

"So you read about the Peverells, Dumbledore, and Grindelwald, then, too?"

"I did," she confirmed, "more so about the Peverells and Grindelwald though. As for Dumbledore, Madame Maxime had an earful to say about him when she got back from Hogwarts after the Triwizard Tournament."

"You weren't at Hogwarts for it, were you?"

"No, I was too young to enter."

"How old were you?"

"Almost a full year older than you."

The man's face remained blank for several seconds before realization dawned upon it. "You know who I am?"

Hermione wiped her hand across her desk as if had crumbs on it. "I didn't at first, but it eventually came to me."

"And when was that at exactly?" The man leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared at her. She suddenly went very warm.

"Well, when you told me you play for Puddlemere United, that narrowed it down. Then, you said Wood's name, and that cut the list down further because you don't seem like the type to refer to yourself in the third person. But what the most telling, was this," and she traced the lightning bolt-shaped scar across her own head to mirror his.

"I should've known," he said, shaking his head surreptitiously and rubbing his hands down his jeans. He then reached across the desk, his hand outstretched, and said, "Harry Potter, Seeker for Puddlemere United."

Gently shaking it, she said, "Hermione Granger, Mr Bagman's secretary." Her hand fit in his like a glove, and she quite liked the feel of it. She inwardly frowned when he let go.

"It's nice to finally meet you," he nodded once.

"Finally?"

"Yeah," he answered. "We've only been talking a good part of the morning, and I didn't even know your name for most of it."

"We got distracted for a little bit," Hermione said. After Harry grunted out a response, she eyed a clock behind his shoulder and continued, "Anyway, now that you do know my name, do you mind clearing out?"

"Hang on," he said, holding up a hand. "Are you kicking me out of your office?" Hermione might've imagined it but for a quick moment, he looked disappointed.

"Um, technically, yes," she admitted. "I'm sorry, but I have a schedule to keep while Mr Bagman is away, and I can't really afford to fall behind in my work."

"You have a lot to do?"

"Always," she sighed. "Sometimes there just aren't enough hours in the day to do all that I have to get done."

"I know the feeling," he acknowledged. Hermione didn't have to ask him to clarify what he was on about.

"You know, for what it's worth, because I'm in charge of revising the proposal for the Quidditch complex, I'll try to do all that I can to think of a way we could fund the project."

"You sure you can come up with something?" He looked rather uncertain.

"I'll try my best," she assured.

"And will that be enough?"

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know, but I guess we'll soon find out."

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**A/N**: Please let me know what you thought of this chapter with a review! Thanks for reading.


	2. A Small World

**Living for Living's Sake**

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Chapter 2: A Small World

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Hermione hated Saturdays, like totally and completely. She thought it to be an utter waste of a day as many people decided to skive off from work. Honestly, couldn't they grow a backbone and work another eight hours or so? It wasn't much, and an efficient enough worker could get a lot done in that time. But she knew, quite clearly in fact, that merely suggesting to take half the weekend and allot it to work would earn her a one-way ticket to St Mungo's (_Spell Damage – Fourth Floor!_).

To make up for a Saturday's worth of work, Hermione arrived an hour and a half before everyone else did in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and took half-hour lunches on Mondays. She was considering the idea of expanding such half-hour lunches to every day of the week but had not yet put that into practice. But even then, she sometimes felt these hours weren't all that resourceful. And that's why she stayed late, past regular working hours, in her office. In doing so, she missed normal dinner hours though she couldn't really much complain about that as she only ate small dinners, or sometimes, she'd skip it altogether.

So, when Hermione woke up and realized it was Saturday, she groaned. Not only was she barred from going into the office, Mr Bagman had made sure of that (_You'll work yourself to death girl!_), she had plans that didn't really excite her. Of course, if she didn't have anything scheduled for the day, she'd happily go and work in that Mr Bagman was in France and would be none the wiser there.

Shifting on her side, she saw Benoît, her one year old Birman cat. Mostly white, though a dark brown patched his face, ears, front paws, and tail, Benoît was certainly fluffy, and left an army of hair all over her flat. If she wasn't able to use magic to get rid of his excess fur, she guaranteed she'd go mad. Reaching up and scratching the side of his neck, she smiled when he leaned into her and began purring.

"You want some breakfast, don't you?" she asked. In answer, Benoît pawed her arm. "Come on, let's go then." Pulling the covers off her and swinging her legs off the bed, she stretched her arms high over her head, yawning. She then got up and followed Benoît, whose tail was sticking straight up in the air, out the bedroom and into the kitchen. Waving her wand, a can of wet food spun out of the cupboard. And after its top was peeled off, roasted turkey and gravy was poured in a dish and set on the counter. Benoît gracefully jumped atop it and began eating.

As Hermione got the coffee started, she looked out of the window above the sink. It was still dark outside, though from her first-story flat, small bubbles of light could be seen in some parts of Godric's Hollow. She actually had a view of the western edge of the village where Harry lived. Ever since officially meeting him last Monday, she hadn't seen him again, in her office or in town. And for some reason she couldn't explain, this disappointed her. She wasn't sure as to why as she didn't really fancy him one way or another, though if she was to be honest with herself, he bordered on being rather handsome and could only imagine what he looked like in his Puddlemere United robes.

He did have a great personality, at least upon their first meeting he did, and this greatly surprised her. Perhaps she was a bit ignorant of the fact that she assumed all Quidditch players were somewhat worthless save for their occasional good-looks. And even then, not all Quidditch players had their rabid fan bases frothing at the mouth. A few did, but most didn't. Harry, however, despite being fairly dense in some aspects of department regulations, showed his intelligence in the draft he helped propose for a brand-new, first-of-its-kind Quidditch complex. Hermione couldn't fault it one way or another, and the only reason it was denied was because of funding. The report contained statistics and figures, diagrams and drawings, with singularized request letters from certain players of the British and Irish Quidditch League, including Harry himself.

She didn't know if she expected Harry to keep visiting her in the office during the week, or for them to at least have a run-in when shopping for groceries. Then again, she wouldn't at all be surprised if he had a girlfriend to keep his time off the Quidditch pitch occupied. And though she knew it shouldn't bother her if he did have someone special, she was still irritated at the thought. Sighing, she cast one last look out the window and turned away from it.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, took a sip, and ran a hand down Benoît so that his back arched up. She then took to the loo, and grimaced when she saw her reflection in the mirror: she looked like a troll that had fallen ill with cerebrumous spattergroit. She looked just ghastly. Truthfully, she was a bit surprised her mirror didn't break.

After taking a quick shower, she finished her coffee while getting dressed. Today, her plans consisted of venturing out to London, something she wasn't much looking forward to. And honestly, these plans were nearly created on a whim, something Hermione neither was accustomed to nor much appreciated. Huffing, she grabbed her beaded handbag, a gift from her parents when they spent last Christmas in London, and shrunk it down so that it fit nicely in her pocket.

"I'll be off now," she said to Benoît. She saw that his head was between its legs, cleaning his privates. "And try not to make a mess of the litter, will you? Even with magic, it's a pain to clean." Benoît gave no indication he heard Hermione, and she hadn't expected him to. But she knew he heard her. She didn't know if he was going to actually listen. She wagered he probably wouldn't. With one last looked at him, she Disapparated.

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Hermione arrived in a skinny alley before making her way in front of a tiny, grubby-looking pub on Charing Cross Road, the Leaky Cauldron, it squished between a book shop on one side and a record shop on its other. She went inside and navigated the dark and shabby inn, passing the bar, wobbly tables and chairs, plus a staircase that led upstairs before exiting out the back door. She stepped inside a small, walled courtyard, complete with a dustbin and a few weeds.

Her wand in hand, Hermione muttered, "What did she say it was? Three up and two across from the dustbin, I think." She tapped a seemingly random brick with her wand three times. It quivered then began to wriggle. Then, the other bricks around it did the same. Hermione watched this in fascination, thinking it to be rather charming. She smiled as an archway was completed and she finally laid eyes on Diagon Alley beyond.

A cobblestone street twisted and weaved its way through a small jungle of rickety shops and peeling faces. She stepped forward and saw a stack of cauldrons populated the front of one shop, while across from it, children had their heads in wooden barrels that bundled racing broomsticks together, them flanking the front door of a neighboring store. (_Magumba, get your head out of there, you silly little child!_ scolded one mother.) Two teenagers were swapping spit in a passageway between Magical Menagerie and Rosa Lee Teabag, and a father and daughter were enjoying ice cream at an umbrella-covered table just outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.

Hermione then spotted a large purple building with a rather extravagant display but before she could get any closer to it, something collided into her side and knocked her completely off her feet. She grunted when she hit the ground and heard a voice somewhere above her, but it was garbled. She shook her head softly, a bit dazed and confused at what had just happened.

"Hermione?" she then heard. She paused as the voice sounded vaguely familiar to her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw him.

"Harry?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"You okay?" He knelt down next to her and scanned her over quickly.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she assured. She wiped her hands on her jeans, and then realized the red smear. Confused, she looked at her palms and saw a long gash on one of them as a brook of blood began to flood her hand.

"Here, let me do something," Harry said, unwinding a yellow tape measure from around his neck. With a simple flick of his wand, it transfigured into a smooth cloth.

He tied it tightly around her hand, and helped her to her feet. "The Apothecary will have something to help. C'mon."

As he pushed his way past a small crowd that had gathered, a woman behind them yelled, "Mr Potter! You bring that tape measure back this instant!"

"I'll return it shortly!" he called. Hermione was acutely aware he had one hand on her elbow and the other on the small of her back.

Harry quickly led her past several more shops, including Sugarplum's Sweets Shop, Ollivanders, and Flourish and Blotts, the last of which Hermione did a double-take.

"Is that a bookshop?" she asked, blind to the fact of where Harry was leading her.

"Flourish and Blotts?" When she nodded, he said, "Yeah, we got our Hogwarts books from there." He then looked sideways at her and asked, "Why, you fancy a trip?"

She shrugged. "Well, I do like books. There was actually a book store out on Charing Cross Road."

"Charing Cross Road?" he repeated, one of his brows arched. "What were you shopping in Muggle London for?"

"Nothing," she answered. "It's just that I've never been to Diagon Alley before and I was given instructions that I could access it through the Leaky Cauldron on Charing Cross."

"And who told you that?"

"You probably know her," Hermione said. "She's a Quidditch player, too."

"What team?"

"Holyhead Harpies," she replied. Looking over at him, she thought Harry was mentally running through the entire lineup to see who the most likely candidate was.

"It wasn't Gwenog Jones, was it, the team captain?"

"No," Hermione shook her head. "It was Ginny Weasley."

Harry suddenly stopped, making Hermione as well. She saw that behind his glasses, Harry's eyes had grown from a pair of small green tennis balls into large, dueling planets, and instead of one brow arched, both of them now were. On top of that, his mouth hung open like a fly trapper.

"You're barking," he said, surprise evident in his face.

"Excuse you, but I am not a dog," she bit back. Hermione was rather affronted Harry would compare her to such a smelly, drooling, pea-brain of an animal.

"No, it's not that," he tried to amend.

"What is it, then?" Hermione sniffed, her arms crossed over her chest and nose in the air.

Before he could tell her, a group of young girls approached Harry meticulously. "Mr Potter," the front-most girl said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Oh, I mean, Harry," she said, and she and the others giggled, covering their mouths with their hands. They reminded Hermione of a pack of unintelligent sheep, the type that would lock themselves in a pen with a hungry wolf. "Would it be possible if we could, you know, have your, um, autograph?" She then quickly added, "Of course, if you're at all bothered by the fact, we could just-,"

"Er, no, it's no problem at all," he said, though Hermione saw red had fielded his cheeks. "Does one of you have a quill?"

At the back of the group, a plump woman stuck her burger-like hand in her bag and clamored, "Me! I got one! Right here!" She bustled forward, shoving two girls violently out of the way, and rushed up to Harry. She got so close to him he actually took a step back. The woman wasn't perturbed, however, as she took another step forward. He quickly signed a Quidditch poster she pushed in his face, and did the same with the rest of the girls. Hermione scoffed when she saw the entire group batting their lashes up at him, biting their bottom lips, and twirling their hair around their fingers. One had the audacity to push her chest forward, her breasts jiggling up and down like they were jell-o.

When he finished, Harry stepped away with an embarrassed smile, and said, "Here," handing the quill back to the plump woman. She took it though brushed her finger against his in a not-so-subtle manner. Hermione thought she looked rather similar to a human-shaped pumpkin.

"Thank you!" they all babbled. "Thanks so much!"

Harry gently took Hermione by the arm and said, "Let's go."

As they turned away from the girls, one of them shouted, "Will you marry me?!"

Harry ducked his head as they all giggled again.

"I think you have an admirer," Hermione said.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, it's a one-way street. With all of 'em, in fact."

They passed a family of four with the two children, a girl and boy, fighting over which name to choose for their recently-purchased barn owl, of which the father was carrying.

"Saucy!"

"Oxy!"

"Saucy!"

"Oxy!"

"Does that always happen to you?" Hermione asked as the argument over Saucy and Oxy was finished when the father interrupted them. (_You two had better cool it or else we'll return this right back!_)

"You mean people coming up and asking for autographs?" When she nodded, Harry said, "A bit, yeah. It's happening more often now, though."

"Oh? Why's that?"

Harry laughed. "Slacking off work, have you?"

"I do no such thing!"

"Really? Then you know England is in the Quidditch finals?"

"Of course I knew that," she waved away. "Honestly, do you think my job as secretary consists of nothing but petty paperwork filing?"

Harry held up his hands. "I just didn't think you were that familiar with what was going on in Quidditch."

"Well, I am," she affirmed. "What I don't understand is why those girls would ask for your autograph when you haven't even won the Quidditch World Cup yet."

"We won the International Quidditch Tournament which helped us qualify for the World Cup," he claimed.

"You think it was really that, or do you think it was because of your status in England?"

Harry looked amused. "And what exactly is my status in England?"

"Don't be so thick," Hermione reprimanded. "You know, as well as I, that you're one of the most popular wizards here because of the war against Voldemort."

"Not so much in France?" he asked.

Hermione thought about this for a split second. "Some people knew of you, but most didn't and quite a few still don't. The whole Voldemort issue was treated as England's problem, and not so much of Europe's as a whole."

Harry frowned. "That was a demented way to look at it."

"Yes, it was," Hermione agreed, "but it was the same when Grindelwald nearly took over the continent. The only time England stepped in was when Albus Dumbledore defeated him. But they didn't help anytime before then."

"It was probably due to the government's incompetency," Harry said. "I mean, the Ministry isn't all that intelligent."

"Ministère des Affairs Magiques de la France is the same," Hermione remarked with a sigh.

"It is?"

Hermione nodded.

"You see, the Ministry's dull-witted attempt to run the country successfully is why I refuse to work for them."

"You thought about it before?" Hermione asked.

"I was offered a spot in the Auror training progamme which would've exempted me from taking my N.E.W.T.s."

"N.E.W.T.s?" Hermione was confused. "What're those?"

"Oh, right," Harry said. "For some reason I just assume you went to Hogwarts." Hermione smiled at him. "N.E.W.T.s are examinations we take seventh-year. It's meant to help with whatever career we choose after we graduate."

"We have something like that," Hermione said. "Except we don't call them N.E.W.T.s, and we don't take them seventh-year."

"Really?"

Hermione shook her head. "At Beauxbatons, those examinations are called Suite d'examens des Dryade, or the Wood Nymph Suite Examinations, and we take them after six years of study."

"That's a bit of a strange name," Harry remarked.

"Maybe to you," Hermione shrugged, "but wood nymphs would sing at meal times at Beauxbatons, and they'd go through an entire list of songs as a sort of encouragement and good fortune to do well on our examinations. It was all a bit much, really, and was terribly distracting."

"They didn't leave you alone to study?"

"Oh, definitely not," Hermione said. "They followed me to the library, my dormitory, and even the loo! I spent some days thinking of the most painful ways wood nymphs can die instead of actually studying for my classes."

"Hang on," Harry said. "You didn't threaten them, did you?"

Hermione shrugged. "How else was I supposed to concentrate?"

"You ever try the Silencing Charm?" he asked. "It's simple, but effective."

"I have," she said as Harry opened the front door of the Apothecary for her to enter through, "but when one stops singing, a dozen more will compensate for it."

"Yeah, I guess that can get quite irritable after awhile," he nodded, leading her past wooden shelves filled with glass jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders. Strings of fangs and knotted claws hung from the ceiling above them, of which two were locked in a hotly-contested fistfight with one another. To top it off, the air reeked of bad eggs and rotted cabbages.

At the front counter, Harry said, "Excuse me," and drew the attention of a small, bald man who was so thin he looked as if he'd blow away with the next strong gust of wind. "D'you have any Dittany?"

As the man filed the shelf behind him and Harry handed over the necessary money, Hermione's attention was drawn to a barrel nearby, one in which bright green slime was swirling around it like a maelstrom. Just behind that was a glass case in which a small hill of glittery-black beetle eyes slept.

"Thanks," Harry took a small bottle from the man, and turned to Hermione. "This'll help with your hand."

"How'd you know about Dittany?"

He scoffed. "I did go to Hogwarts, you know."

"And passed all your classes?"

They walked out of the Apothecary, Harry holding open the door for Hermione to exit first, as he said, "More or less, though History of Magic and Divination weren't exactly noteworthy."

"History of Magic is interesting," Hermione said, "but Divination is absolute rubbish. Only a fool would pass a class like that."

"You should meet Trelawney," Harry said, leading Hermione over to a nearby bench.

"Trelawney?" Hermione repeated. "Who's that?"

"The Divination professor at Hogwarts."

Hermione huffed. "And why on earth should I meet with her?"

"I think you'd two get along smashingly over a cup of tea," Harry said, unwrapping the blood-soaked cloth from Hermione's hand.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Besides History of Magic and Divination, I have no doubt you failed at humor, too."

"No class for that," he replied, tipping over the bottle of Dittany so that three drops of brown liquid bulleted Hermione's wound. The gash on her palm sizzled as a greenish smoke mushroomed away from it, and she grunted when a searing pain shot up her arm. "You okay?"

"Fine," she answered through clenched teeth.

"The pain should go away in a minute or so." Harry pulled the stopper back on the bottle and pocketed it.

"Thanks for doing this, by the way," Hermione said. Harry shrugged easily. They watched two young boys walk by them, each carrying a hefty stack of Chocolate Frog Cards, with one trying to entice the other to give up a card he wanted.

"You've got about six of Harry Potter already!"

"Kids these days," Harry muttered and shook his head as he watched the two boys pass right by them, both completely oblivious to the fact they had overlooked the person of their Chocolate Frog Card infatuation. He then took hold of his wand and ran it down the cloth, it transfiguring back into the yellow tape measure, sans any blood.

"Are you going to tell me why you have that?" Hermione asked.

"What? This?" He held up the tape measure. "I was getting fitted is all."

"For what?"

"Dress robes," he acknowledged, "for a wedding." This surprised Hermione. Perhaps he hadn't a girlfriend to keep his time off the Quidditch pitch occupied, but a fiancé instead.

"Who's the lucky lady?" Though the ache in her arm had subsided, her feelings were another matter.

"Lavender Brown," Harry said, leaning back against the bench as he wound the tape measure around his finger like a ring. That was when Hermione noticed he wasn't wearing one. She supposed he'd put it on after the ceremony. "I actually left my best mate back at Madam Malkin's."

"Is that the store you barged out of?"

"Barged out of," he derided playfully. "You trying to blame me for your accident?"

"Well, it was your fault. You weren't looking where you were going."

"And you were?" he fired back instantly. Amusement wreathed his eyes.

"I was distracted-,"

"Which means you admit that you weren't looking where you were going," he finished with a large smile.

"And did you happen to see a Golden Snitch fly just outside the door of Madam Malkin's and that's why you rushed out of it like a Blast-Ended Skrewt?"

Harry looked over at her. "Have those in France, do you?"

"We just study them," Hermione said.

"Blast-Ended Skrewt or not, I saw a teammate of mine I'm meeting for lunch." He then added more to himself than Hermione, "I actually wasn't able to catch him."

"Meeting for lunch?" Hermione drew her brows together across her head. "Aren't you late?"

Harry looked at his watch. "No. I still have about half an hour left. I mean, getting fitted is terribly boring."

"Maybe," Hermione tested, "but aren't you at all excited about the wedding?"

He gave her a curious look. "Why would I be?"

Hermione was flabbergasted. "I thought it would be self-explanatory. You're marrying the girl you love!"

Harry threw his head back and laughed. Hermione looked over at him dully and wondered what on earth was so funny. In fact, she thought about just leaving him there and let him trouble the next poor soul who happened upon Harry Potter laughing all by himself on a bench in Diagon Alley. (_Spell Damage – Fourth Floor!_)

"I'm not getting married," he finally managed, hiccupping when he finished.

"But what about that Lavender Brown?" Hermione tried not to show it but she felt her spirits soar, so much in fact, a bout of laughter threatened to spill right out of her. She managed to hold it in.

"Lavender is getting married to Ron, my best mate I left back in Madam Malkin's," Harry explained. "I'm his best man and I needed to get my dress robes checked."

"Ron?" Hermione asked slowly even though his name was extremely short. "As in Ron Weasley?"

Harry looked surprised. "You know him?"

"No, but I'm attending his wedding too." Hermione could tell Harry was now confused.

"So, you're going to the wedding of someone you don't know?"

"I was invited," Hermione explained, "by his sister, Ginny."

"Right," Harry pointed his finger. "You were telling me before it was Ginny that gave you directions on how to access Diagon Alley."

"She actually stopped by the department a week or so after I started, and when she saw that I was new, she introduced herself to me, and we chatted for a bit."

"And Ginny just happened to invite you to her brother's wedding at the end of that conversation?" Harry asked unconvincingly.

"She thought it'd be a good opportunity to meet new people being that I don't know many in England. I'm actually supposed to meet her at Madam Malkin's at noon."

"Dresses?"

"Yeah, and we're supposed to grab some lunch after."

"Did you want to head back now?"

"It's not noon yet, is it?"

"No," Harry said, "but didn't you say you wanted to stop in at Flourish and Blotts? We can look around there for a bit until it's time."

"I don't want to bother you with Flourish and Blotts," Hermione said. "You can go back to Madam Malkin's and I'll find my way over later."

"Two things," Harry countered, holding up two of his fingers. "One, I already told I'm bored to tears back at Madam Malkin's, and two, you don't have a watch."

"So?" Hermione asked, trying to fight down the smile that was giving its damndest try in working its way over her face.

"You don't want to be late for your appointment with Ginny, do you?"

"I'm positive you'll be just as equally as bored at Flourish and Blotts," Hermione said.

"I don't think so," Harry shook his head.

"And why not?"

"I'm thinking it's the company," he shrugged. When Hermione didn't respond, he challenged, "If you don't want me to come, I'll head back and-,"

"No," Hermione intervened a bit too quickly. She mentally cursed herself for doing so. "I mean, you can come along if you want." She thought it was in her rights to keep Harry all to herself for the next half hour or so being that he wasn't already taken. Surely he would've told her if he was seeing anyone, right?

Together, they came back the way they had come, passing several people, most of whom gawked at Harry. He ignored them, however, something Hermione admired of him. It was one-two Stinging Hex to the arse seeing the young man who defeated Voldemort and the young man who was looking to win the Quidditch World Cup for England out and about in Diagon Alley. What they failed to realize is that even with his accomplishments at such a young age, Harry was still a human being, one who just happened to survive and be part of infamous altercations and situations.

"You good friends with Ginny, then?" he asked with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, I wouldn't say it like that," Hermione said. "We only met once."

"But you hit it off well?"

"Pretty much," Hermione nodded. "We talked about the usual: working at the Ministry, playing for the Harpies, living in England, living in France, her family, and my family."

"And that's how you got around to Ron's wedding?"

"In a way," Hermione said. "It was more of the fact that when I told her my mum had taken up gardening as a hobby, Ginny said she wished her mum, Molly I think her name was," Harry confirmed this with a nod, "would do something like that instead of being in a right state about the wedding."

"She let it slip then?"

"I asked her whose wedding she was on about and Ginny said it was her brother, Ron's. She then wondered if I'd like to come so I can make friends and all."

"You'll meet some good people," Harry added. "Most will be from Hogwarts but they're alright. Of course, the Weasleys will be there but they're as close to a family as I have right now, and on top of that, you'll have a Beauxbatons companion."

"Oh yeah?" Hermione asked. "Who?"

"Fleur Delacour," Harry said. "She married Ginny's oldest brother, Bill."

"I don't know if I'd call Fleur a companion," Hermione stated. "She's older than me and we never much interacted at Beauxbatons." She paused. "Actually, come to think of it, I don't think we interacted at all."

"So what's she to you then?"

"Just that other girl from school," Hermione said offhandedly. This made Harry laugh, a sound she was growing to like very much.

They entered inside Flourish and Blotts and Hermione smiled at the number of books that colonized the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Here, she felt at ease. In truth, she had always felt more comfortable around books than people, a sentiment her parents found worrying. But, she couldn't help it. Books were like patiently awaiting portals to another world, one in which characters greeted the reader like an old friend. It was a form of escape Hermione utilized a lot when she was younger, especially when the kids her age had shunned her from their small groupies. She didn't mind, though, because the characters of the books she frequented were part of a much longer list of friends than anyone else her age had.

As Hermione weaved through the aisles happily, Harry dutifully followed silently, of which she was grateful for. One of her biggest peeves was of people talking inside a bookstore like one would at a Weird Sisters concert. Those types of inbreds were the most foul for they pretended their voices were much more important than the voices contained in the books around them.

She titled her head sideways to read the titles off the spines, though she wasn't looking for anything in particular. She'd pull one book out, leaf through its pages, and return it, and repeat the same procedure with another book she found interesting. And all the while, Harry was beside her like her own personal bodyguard. He did look at books here and there but she knew he was bluffing. A dead giveaway was when he pulled a thick volume down from a high shelf and flipped through it, yet his eyes stayed stationary.

"I told you it would be boring to come with me," Hermione whispered to him as they passed a mother and her young daughter.

"It's alright," he shrugged. "But much better than at Madam Malkin's."

"Isn't Ron wondering where you've gone?"

"He'll manage," Harry said as if he couldn't care one way or the other.

Hermione fingered the top of a book and pulled it out. The cover read _Quidditch Tragedies of the Nineteenth Century (includes Attack of the Killer Forest)_. She showed it to Harry who smiled.

"Interesting in brushing up on your Quidditch history, are you?"

"Have you heard about the Attack of the Killer Forest?" she asked.

"Everyone who plays Quidditch has," he nodded. "Have you?"

Hermione opened the book and paged it. "Vaguely, but I know of most of it. It's just the details I'm missing."

"It was Romania and New Spain in the Quidditch finals when Niko Nenad, a Beater for the Romanian National Quidditch team, hit a Bludger out of the stadium they were playing in and into a nearby forest. The trees then attacked the stadium, killing several people, including Nenad himself."

"Didn't he pay local Dark wizards to help with the attack?"

"He did," Harry said. "That bloke wasn't right in the head, though. This is the same chap who beat himself over the head with his broomstick, set his feet on fire, and nearly strangled two referees leading up to the Quidditch World Cup. It isn't hard to believe that something up here," his finger ringed his right temple several times in small loops, "wasn't quite right."

"This actually sounds pretty interesting," Hermione said, closing the book and checking its sticker price.

"Are you going to get it?"

"You know what, I am actually. I could do with a good book tonight before bed." As she dug her beaded bag out of her pocket and restored it to its normal size with a flick of her wand, Harry snatched the book out of her hands without warning and marched up to the front counter. He handed the book over to the clerk and handed over the money.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked him harshly as he beckoned for her to exit the store with him.

"Why? Did you want something else?" He made to turn to go back into Flourish and Blotts, but Hermione grabbed his bicep, one, she thought, that was rather large. "I could've paid for that on my own! I was getting my bag!"

"I never said you couldn't," he said. "I just wanted to do something nice for you."

"And why's that?"

"I can't be nice?"

"Well…yes, yes, you can," she sputtered, "but why were you nice to me, exactly?"

"Because I felt like it," he said simply, leading her down Diagon Alley.

"That's just outrageous! I don't need you to pay anything for me!" she said wildly.

"And here I thought you'd be grateful," he muttered. She heard his annoyance, and for all she cared, that was all fine and good in her world. Really, who did he think he was, paying for her book like that? She was Hermione Granger, dammit!

"I just don't like the fact that you felt the need to buy this for me when I was fully capable of doing it myself!" She then tugged the book out of his hands just as she heard her name being called out.

Looking around, she saw Ginny waving to her just outside Madam Malkin's. And out of the corner of her eye, she saw the small gaggle of girls tiptoe over to an unsuspecting Harry, the pumpkin-shaped girl leading the charge.

"You two met already?" Ginny asked after they approached her, looking between Harry and Hermione.

"This past Monday," he answered.

"Did you tell him you're coming to the wedding?" Ginny directed at Hermione.

"He knows," Hermione said, her hand flopping lazily in the air like a fish would on land.

"And you two are getting on well?"

"What I learned today is that Hermione Granger is extremely independent," Harry replied.

Ginny stared over at him before she said, "Judging by how you two are acting, I'm guessing you don't mean that in the most positive of ways?"

Before he could answer, the front door to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions stormed open, the knob hitting the fat girl right in her stomach. As she stumbled backwards, bowling over the rest of the sheep herd, Madam Malkin bellowed, "Mr Potter, what have you done with my tape measure, you depraved boy?!"

* * *

**A/N**: Please let me know what you think of this chapter with a review! And don't worry about Harry and Hermione's small misunderstanding about the book purchase turning into a bout of unnecessary angst. I'm not a fan! Thanks for reading.


	3. Harry's Hand

**Living for Living's Sake**

* * *

Chapter 3: Harry's Hand

* * *

Hermione was late, and the one thing Hermione hated above all else was being late. She rushed out of the fireplace and nearly ran past the golden gates to the lifts, ignoring polite _Good mornings _and _Hellos_. After searching for the shortest queue, she joined the end of the line. Helpless to restrain herself from bouncing on one foot and then the other, she momentarily wondered if one of the workers she failed to exchange morning pleasantries with had enacted revenge and casted the Tarantallegra Charm on her. No doubt some were having a good snicker behind her back if that was so. But then again, it was Monday morning and simply getting out of bed and journeying to the Ministry was a job unto itself. Anything to lighten the dour mood on Mondays was a positive sign for the week ahead. Clearly, someone pegged her as the scapegoat for foolish shenanigans. Or maybe she had grown paranoid waiting for the lift to arrive. She thought it was likely to be the former.

A loud jangling startled Hermione and the lift came into view. The golden grille slid back and chaos ensued. Like the running of the bulls, the once-orderly line dissolved into mass hysteria. An elderly woman had the misfortune of being at the front for she was practically shoved into the far wall. Her glasses took flight. A man elbowed his neighbor in the ribs and shouldered him into someone holding a peacock. The bird hopped atop a bald man's head and batted its wings like a curtain in a strong wind. As the peacock started calling, making those nearby cover their ears (_Someone who has a working brain put a Silencing Charm on the damned thing! What are you all? Muggles?!_), a man with glasses charged forward in a war-cry, the morning's edition of the _Daily Prophet _rolled up like a flimsy mace. He swatted at the bird, missing each time, while his owner cried out, "Stop, you old coot! He's just frightened! Stop it, I say!"

Hermione, in the meantime, was pushed forward and tossed backward, losing her balance and falling into the back of a large man. He tripped over his own two feet and grabbed the shoulders of a skinny woman in front of him. The trio collapsed instantly. Hermione spotted a watch on the floor and a woman's heel next to it. She grunted and pushed herself off of the man as feathers from the peacock spiraled down in lazy twisters. Reaching into her pocket and grabbing her wand, she took aim at the bird who had now focused his attention on a woman who was wearing too much lipstick, some of it having gone on her front teeth. She shrieked at the top of her lungs, it sounding worse than the peacock's, as she cowered against one wall.

"It's going to kill me! It's going to kill me!" she yelled, covering her face with her hands. "Someone, help me! Please, help me!"

Hermione first silenced the woman, her voice giving her a splitting headache, and then the bird. Its owner rushed forward with his wand at the ready (though not before jinxing the old coot's shoelaces to turn into small snakes; they ringed his ankles – the old man screamed and did a funny dance like someone off his trolley would), and dazed it with a pink light that flashed from the tip of his wand. The peacock suddenly stilled in midair and then fell into his owner's outstretched arms. Jostled by the crowd, he cooed at it, and shot a filthy look at the old coot who had fallen on the floor. As he was being attended to (_I've done my hip in!_), the golden grille slid forward and Hermione realized she had missed her ride.

* * *

Nearly barreling down her door, Hermione strode into her office in a foul mood, making a wave of parchment on her desk tidal wave against one wall. She groaned, waving her wand at the window so the curtain separated in the middle to give her a view of Montmarte Place Cachée. After practically slamming her bag on top of her desk (the drawers rattled), she collapsed into her chair, her arms on the rests.

The war to get into the lifts during the morning rush already tired her out, so much so she felt as if she had already put in a full day's worth of work. Not only that but since she had come an hour and a half later than she normally did, she would have to make up her hours. If not, her work log would be uneven from last week to this week, and she certainly wouldn't have that! She sighed against the back of her chair, watching shoppers down in Montmarte Place Cachée absent-mindedly. She did this for longer than was necessary, willing her mood to subside lest Mr Bagman came in as he usually did and stir the already choppy and toxic waters simmering inside her head.

Eyeing the parchment on the floor like collapsed tombstones, evidence of just how hard Hermione could open a door when in a hurry, she waved her wand and they floated back into a neat pile on her desk. She then turned around in her chair to sort through them when she stopped, and stared at the opposite wall of her office, her mouth agape. Very little caught her off guard though a few things managed to slip through the cracks. This, however, was something different, and quite frankly, Hermione wasn't sure what to think about it.

Every inch of the facing wall was covered in colorful Quidditch posters of famous players, all of whom were posing with their broomsticks in flashy mannerisms. One acted as if his broomstick was a tightrope, and as he walked across it, he held out his arms to the sides for balance. Another was using her broomstick to destroy a makeup kit as if it was a large sledgehammer. And her neighbor was using his broomstick as a pull-up bar. Hermione stared a bit too long at this one for the player had decided to dispose of his Quidditch robes, and his chest and abdomen glistened as thin rivers of sweat snaked down his body. Tearing her eyes away, she then spotted Harry's poster, one in which he threw the Golden Snitch up in the air and caught it in his hand. Occasionally, the Golden Snitch would try and fly away, and when it did this, Harry's brows pulled together across his head and he'd easily grab it. Hermione noticed though that this poster was different from the ones he signed for the sheep herd back in Diagon Alley on Saturday.

As Hermione looked at each poster in turn (every team in the British-Irish League seemed to be represented, from the Chudley Cannons, to the Tutshill Tornadoes, and even the Wigtown Wanderers), a voice from her doorway asked, "How d'you like the new setup?"

Turning her head, she saw Ludo Bagman beaming at her, his doughy cheeks rosy. She wasn't completely certain but something about Mr Bagman was off in that though his face screamed color, there was a certain paleness that hid underneath it, opposite that of a small lake in a vast desert. She found this odd as he had just taken a week-long holiday to France.

"Mr Bagman," she greeted, fixing on a smile and standing to her feet. "How was your trip?"

"Some of this and some of that," he said disinterestedly. "Nothing really to take note of."

"Maybe that's for the best," Hermione said. "I mean, it was supposed to be a holiday, right?"

"Of course!" His blue eyes then swiveled to the wall of Quidditch posters, and he pointed a finger. "Nice, eh? And look, some of 'em are signed!"

"You didn't do this, did you?" Though childish in many ways, especially when it came to Quidditch, she couldn't see Mr Bagman, her boss, breaking into her office for a redecoration scheme to pull on a Monday morning.

"Me?" he asked, palming his large belly. Hermione momentarily wondered if he meant his chest and missed. "Of course not! No, no!" he smiled.

"Then do you know who did?"

Bagman looked over at her curiously. "You don't like it?"

"Well," she stammered, "I kind of preferred to how my office was before."

"It was rather plain, my dear."

"Yes, but I work well in that type of environment," she said. "I can't even begin to imagine trying to get through an entire day with all of these players," she gestured up at the posters, "looking over at me. Honestly, it's distracting."

"Not all of 'em will," he countered, and nodded off in the direction of one player who had decided his time was well spent taking a snooze on his broomstick hovering in the air. Hermione thought he looked dangerously close to falling off. "And if you ask me, your office now fits the mold with the rest of the department. After all, you were the only one that didn't have any type of Quidditch memorabilia."

"I know that-," she began but was interrupted.

"And look, he provided you with a whole new bookcase, too," Bagman pointed. At this, Hermione turned and saw that two shelves were hanging on a wall, it already filled with books. She had unquestionably missed this before though that wasn't all that unusual given that she was running late to work.

Frowning, she walked over to it and saw all the books were Quidditch-related: _Quidditch Through the Ages, The International Quidditch Association and its History_, and even _A Study of Quidditch: How it Helped Cure the Black Cat Flu, Dragon Pox, and Scrofungulus_. Taking down the first book on the bottom row (_The Benefits and Consequences of Daydreaming about Quidditch Whilst at Work_), she opened the front cover saw a small message there:  
_  
To Hermione,  
As independent as the rest wish to be.  
\- H_

She stared at this for several seconds, rereading it twice before it came to her.

"Harry did all of this?" she asked, looking around her office, her eyes finding the posters and the books on the shelves.

"Came in just this morning," Bagman said proudly.

"How did he get in? I lock my office everyday when I leave."

"I let him in," Bagman answered innocently. "Actually, I had to summon a bloke from Magical Maintenance to unlock the door first. Quite the spell you have on your office!" he declared, wagging a finger at her. He, however, didn't at all look upset.

Hermione turned in a full circle, seeing if maybe she might've missed another one of Harry's decorations, and asked, "Why did he do all this?"

"He said you helped him with the Quidditch complex debacle while I was away," Bagman replied.

"But all I did was answer some questions he had."

"Isn't that what help is?"

Hermione shrugged as she distinctly remembered saying to Harry, _"Would I be offering my help if I didn't?"_ when he asked if she worked there.

"By the way, have you come up with any revisions for the proposal before I appeal? Perhaps in terms of funding?"

When Bagman asked her this, Hermione was staring over at Harry's Quidditch poster. She noticed every now and then, when he wasn't trying to keep the Golden Snitch from escaping, he'd look over at her. She'd be lying if she said he didn't look fanciable in his Puddlemere United robes, just as she suspected. In fact, she supposed he'd look good in anything, especially dress robes. And like lightning striking a weather vane, it came to her, a way to test her theory. After all, he technically owed her one since he took it upon himself to decorate her office.

"I believe I do have something that might help with funding," Hermione said. "It's just that I'm still trying to work everything out."

"How much more time do you need?"

"Just until the end of the week."

"Good," Bagman nodded, "because some of these Quidditch players are breathing fire down my neck! They don't seem to understand that these things take time, especially something as big as a Quidditch complex." He chuckled. "It's like they can't properly function now that they know there's a possibility they might get their own individual pitches."

"But isn't the season practically over?" Hermione asked. "The World Cup is next month."

"Yes, but there's always room to practice for the next World Cup," Bagman said.

"That's in four years, though."

"Certainly, though the International Quidditch Tournament is every two years. Not to mention there are captain replacements, team changes, tryouts, the latest broomstick models to test, and practices to account for. Downtime for Quidditch players, especially ones that are part of teams that often make it to the semifinals and finals of the World Cup and International Quidditch Tournament, is very limited."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply but stopped when an interdepartmental memo in the shape of a broomstick, as this is what the normal Ministry aeroplane memos are charmed to change into when accessing the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, flew inside her office and collided with the side of Bagman's head.

He jerked to the side and grabbed the memo with a frown. "I'm afraid I've been called down to the Minister's office," he said, reading over the message. "Have your revisions to the Quidditch complex proposal on my desk by Friday morning," he instructed as he turned around and made for the door. "After lunch, we'll discuss it and ready for the appeal next Monday."

"Of course, sir," Hermione said.

Bagman then exited her office but not before waving at Harry's Quidditch poster with a large smile. In turn, Harry nodded his head once at him.

* * *

The air was chilly, and Hermione was glad for the light sweater she thought to grab before leaving her flat. She pulled it tightly around her, tucking her hands into her sides. She wandered down a cobbled lane lined with cottages, squares of light spilling out from behind partially-closed curtains.

When she first moved to Godric's Hollow, Hermione weighed the option of living in a cottage, or in a flat. There were only a couple available of each and she had to make a decision quickly. She chose the flat because of the views it gave: though she was only on the first floor, Godric's Hollow itself had a relatively level landscape. The building her flat was in was four floors and it was the tallest structure in the entire village. However, Godric's Hollow was like a ship in the ocean in West Country, and West Country proper had anything but a level landscape. From every window of her flat, Hermione saw valleys tucked between rolling, green hills as far as the eye could see. It was like they went on until the horizon. Quite simply, it was stunning and Hermione had no reservations that she had made the right choice.

Yet, she thought the cottages she passed were very quaint, and wondered what it would be like to own one. She imagined snuggling into a comfortable couch with a good book, one that certainly and in no-way involved Quidditch, during the winter, a throw over her legs while a fire bubbled next to her; mint hot chocolate would dominate the living area's table, steam fogging its surface; a Christmas tree would monopolize one corner while snow built up on the sill, it reflecting the Christmas lights that had been strung up around the windows. She smiled at the thought and decided winter couldn't get here fast enough.

A dog in the front yard of a cottage she walked by barked at her. She ignored it. The couple next door was having a contest of who could scream the loudest, and Hermione distinctly heard _mistress _and _up the duff_ used more than once. On top of that, a cottage across the way had a kaleidoscope of colors fuming out of its chimney. She assumed a magical family lived there and wondered what Muggles would say if they saw it. She then shook her head in admonishment as a small explosion rocked the house. Surely the fools should be more careful given they live around Muggles! When deciding on where to move when she came back to England, Hermione read that the magical community made up about a quarter of the population of Godric's Hollow. Though given the number of people who actually lived there along with the size of the village, coming across several witches and wizards wouldn't be all that impossible or unrealistic.

Reaching the end of the lane, she arrived in the middle of the village, a small square, which contained several shops, a post office, a pub, and a church. The setting sun cut slices through the church's stained-glass windows that looked as if they were painted into the cobbles. She then spotted a kissing gate to the side of the church which served as the unofficial entrance to St Jerome's Graveyard, which was reportedly haunted. Hermione thought that was a load of rubbish. However, the headstones that ghosted the gate made her feel uneasy.

As she passed by the square's war memorial, she saw it change into a family of three, that of the Potter family, Harry and his parents. The first thing she did upon moving to Godric's Hollow was visit this statue. It was something of a legend in the books she had read about the village, and seeing it for the first time impacted her far more than she thought it would. The mere fact of the matter was that England was her home, no matter how many years she lived in France for. Nothing could change that. And to be away when it was embroiled by war was both frightening and nauseating. For Harry to defeat Voldemort, as young as he was, was nothing short of a miracle in her book, and she didn't really care for the attitudes of many who believed Voldemort was a domestic problem to that of her home in England.

She skirted around several families and couples before she exited the square, entering onto a new street lined with cottages, the streetlamps now having been birthed into existence. She made her way down to the end and saw the only cottage in Godric's Hollow invisible to Muggles, one that belonged to Harry: the front hedge stood about waist-high and was parted in the middle for Hermione to walk through; twin lakes of green grass bordered a stone walkway that led up the front door; flower boxes populated the front windows, the curtains having not yet been drawn; and small puffs of smoke the chimney breathed out were like a railroad of bubbles.

Knocking on the door, Hermione didn't have to wait long for Harry to answer. To his credit, he looked surprised, but then again, she had made an unexpected and thus, announced visit.

"Hermione? What're you doing here?"

"I thought I might have a word if you're available," she said.

"Er, sure," he stood aside to let her in. Hermione looked around as Harry closed the door behind her and saw a wooden staircase that led up to the second level, while a small sitting area was to her left and the living room to her right. "If you don't mind, I'm making dinner in the kitchen." He beckoned her to follow as he led her by the staircase to the back of the home. "You want anything to drink?"

"Water, if that's okay."

"Ice, or no ice?"

"No ice," she said.

Harry waved his wand at a high cupboard and a glass tumbled down off it. He caught it easily, his Seeker reflexes in play even off the Quidditch pitch, while a jug paraded out of the fridge and poured the water.

"Thanks," she said as he handed it over to her. She took a sip. "What're you making, by the way?"

"Chicken and leek with a side of cabbages and onions," he answered, taking a quick peek in the oven. A wall of heat blasted her. "Here, take a seat," he said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. He sat down opposite her. "Couple of minutes before it's done. Did you want to stay for a piece?"

"Oh, I shouldn't," Hermione shook her head. "Benoît will be waiting for me."

Harry looked rather put-out when she said this, but Hermione assumed she was just imagining. "Your boyfriend, I assume?"

"No, my cat."

He paused as he looked over at her. Hermione, however, held her ground and stared right back at him. His green eyes were electric behind his glasses and she felt drawn to them.

"And you eat with your cat every night?"

"Well, not every night, no," she said.

"So he won't be missing you if you stay for dinner then."

"I'll have you know that my cat loves me very much and he'll miss me if I don't go back."

Harry scoffed. "I never said you couldn't go back, just that you should stay for dinner."

"I actually didn't feed him yet," she said. "The poor thing just might starve."

"Then we'll bring the chicken and leek over to your place."

Now it was Hermione who scoffed. "Do you think it's acceptable to just invite yourself over?"

"What other choice do we have?" he asked. "Your cat'll be hungry."

Normally, Hermione would find such back-and-forth one-liners incredible annoying, them adding absolutely nothing to her life, yet with Harry, she didn't seem to mind. And dare she admit it that she actually somewhat enjoyed their little argy-bargy.

"Maybe Benoît will be fine for a little while and-,"

"Great!" Harry interrupted with a grin. "You're staying!"

"Excuse me but I said no such thing!"

"Well, you were making your way there," Harry shrugged. "Besides, I can't be all that bad to have dinner with, can I?"

"Unless your eating habits resemble that of a dragon feasting on a hide of raw meat, you should be fine."

He laughed and said, "You know, one of Ron's brothers actually works with dragons."

"The one who lives all the way out in Romania, right? Charlie, was it?"

Harry titled his head slightly to the side. "Ginny told you already, did she?"

"Just a bit," Hermione said. "She didn't really go into details though."

"Kinda strange," Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest. Hermione tried not to stare at his biceps. "Charlie's her favorite brother."

"Not anymore," Hermione replied after taking another sip of water. Her mouth had gone quite dry as her mind briefly wandered over to what Harry's muscles would be like when maneuvering his broomstick across the Quidditch pitch. "She told me it was Bill."

Harry rolled his eyes. "She goes back and forth, really. Can't seem to make up her mind one way or the other."

"That's not very nice."

"The truth rarely is," he said looking over at her.

Setting her glass of water down, she asked, "And what was that when you said I was independent? The truth?"

Harry was unable to hold in a grin that had gained considerable weight. "You saw your office, then?"

"Don't be silly, of course I did! You think I'd randomly take off from work?"

"How'd you like it?"

Hermione gently brushed her fingers down the column of her neck. "Can't say I love it."

"What?" Harry had the audacity to look surprised. "Why not?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said sarcastically. "Maybe it's because there's a wall full of strangers doing all sorts of things while I'm trying to work!"

"So you're saying you can't concentrate?"

"Hardly!"

"Well, that's a bit too bad on your part because I put a Permanent Sticking Charm on all those posters," Harry said.

"You what?!"

He scratched away at his shoulder and had the nerve to look embarrassed. "I thought you'd like it, actually. It took me nearly an arm and leg to get everything together."

His words momentarily dehydrated Hermione's annoyance from flooding out of her. She hadn't even bothered to consider all Harry had to go through in redecorating her office, even if he didn't have her approval to do so. The wall of posters and the two dozen books he had bought for her surely didn't come cheap, not that he was hurting for money or anything, but it was rather thoughtful for him to take it upon himself to try and do something nice for her (unlike when he bought the book for her back in Diagon Alley a couple of days ago). At least, she supposed he had nothing but good intentions.

"If anything, at least it's colorful," Hermione said. For some reason, she felt like cheering Harry up after she had unintentionally extinguished his belief, however misplaced it was, that the addition of Quidditch posters and books would elevate her office into an area where she would thrive in her work.

Harry nodded silently, his eyes on the table between them. She then thought this would be an apt time as any to explain her visit. Surely, this would inject a bout of optimism in him, something she didn't think she needed before, but now wanted.

"I, um, I think I came up with an idea for possible funding for the Quidditch complex." Just as she had expected, she had his attention.

"Really?" He leaned forward in his chair, setting his arms on the table. She could tell he was alert.

"I'm still working on the details but I was thinking the British and Irish League Headquarters could host a gala."

"A what?" he asked. His eyes were dizzied with confusion.

"It's like a fundraiser," Hermione explained quickly. "A social event of sorts where many people are invited and all. There'll be food and drinks, and dancing for whoever wants to. I was even thinking about inviting a guest act to perform, too."

"You mean like the Weird Sisters?" Harry asked. "You know who they are, right?"

"I do," Hermione nodded, "but I think they're a bit…well, rather juvenile. I don't believe there'll be any children or teenagers in attendance, at least not when alcohol is likely to be involved."

"So it'll be a leave-the-kids-at-home-type of event?"

"Technically, a gala is normally for adults," Hermione said. "I can't imagine children would find it to be fun or anything."

"Who would you invite?"

"Everyone," Hermione answered simply.

"Muggles too, then?"

She nudged him gently with her foot under the table. "You know what I mean." This made Harry laugh.

When she finished, he asked, "Where're you thinking about holding this thing? You're gonna need a big place."

"Mr Bagman has a winter mansion in Lancashire. I was thinking about requesting its use for the gala."

"He has a mansion up there?" Harry looked surprised. "I thought he was still paying off some of his gambling liabilities."

"I don't know anything about that," Hermione said quietly.

Harry drummed his fingers on the table once before he got up and checked the oven again. When he did so, she saw his shirt ride up a bit, giving her a clear view of his oxford blue boxer shorts. Her heart skipped a beat though she regained control when he pulled his grey joggers up. Honestly, what a coincidence it was for him to be wearing oxford blue boxer shorts when it happened to be her favorite color!

"You think this'll actually work?" he asked as he turned around.

"Depends," Hermione replied.

Harry arched a brow. "On what?"

"If approved, I imagine the gala will be held shortly after the Quidditch World Cup. Since England is representing the British and Irish Quidditch League, do you know what that means?"

Harry leaned back against the counter, his hands in his pockets. "To prove the credibility of the British and Irish Quidditch League, and by extension, that of the Quidditch complex, we have to win…England to win the Quidditch World Cup."

Hermione nodded. "I know it's not the most ideal situation, but we have to work with what we got."

"And what happens if England loses?"

She sighed and said, "It's probably best not to think of it."

* * *

**A/N**: Somewhat of an abrupt ending, I know, but I thought that this was a good place to end the chapter. Also, feel free to let me know what you thought of this chapter with a review! Thanks for reading.


	4. Gossiping Birds

**Living for Living's Sake**

* * *

Chapter 4: Gossiping Birds

* * *

Hermione's first impression of the Burrow was that it was charming. It stood in a wide-open field in the middle of a series of low hills, looking as if it might've once been a large stone pigpen, then extra rooms were added atop of one another, resembling that of what a toddler might do with blocks after an afternoon slumber. And because she reckoned it was taller than that of the building her flat was located in back in Godric's Hollow, the company of windows the Burrow employed was guaranteed to give stunning views of the surrounding area. Then, nearly half a dozen chimneys were perched on the red roof, similar to that of a giant's bottom row of remaining teeth after getting into a slugfest with its rival.

"So, what d'you think?" Ginny asked. Her arms were open wide towards the Burrow, looking like a Muggle realtor trying to sell Hermione a new home.

"It's quite cozy," Hermione said. "But don't you think it's a bit small to hold a wedding?"

"That'll be out back," Ginny said, "not inside." She led Hermione forward, passing by a tumbledown garage with trees that huddled its rear. "Mind the chickens," Ginny instructed as the front yard was run amok by fat brown ones.

"Do you plan on leaving these out for the wedding later?" Hermione asked, weary of one chicken who seemed to be eyeing her shoes.

"Mum will probably have them shut away. Guests are supposed to arrive just before sundown so there's a lot of time left for that."

"Sundown? It's barely nine in the morning! Not that I don't appreciate you inviting me to your brother's wedding and all, but what am I doing here so early?"

Ginny looked sheepish. "The thing is, while Ron is with Harry at his place, my mum suggested Lavender and her maid of honor, Parvati, get ready here."

"And?"

"They're dreadful," Ginny moaned, grabbing Hermione's arm and shaking it. "All they talk about is fashion, fashion, and oh, did I forget? Fashion! I might turn into a nutter if I have to spend the whole day with them!"

"Who says you have to spend the whole day with them?"

"Mum," Ginny sighed. "I tried to slip her a few gardening books I picked up at Flourish and Blotts but she shoved those away as if they would give her the mumblemumps." She shook her head. "I'll just be glad when this whole wedding's over. Everyone around here's gone batty."

"Including yourself?"

"Oh, definitely," she nodded. "But now that you're here, maybe it'll be enough to keep a little bit of my sanity. C'mon." Instead of going inside the house, however, Ginny piloted Hermione to the side and ventured just outside the back garden. "A brief tour's in order, I think."

Hermione saw gnarled trees stood like watchtowers against the waist-high walls, while bushes crowded their bases; weeds were invading colorful plants that governed the flower beds; and a green pond was infested with frogs and lily pads.

"The back garden," Ginny said with a lazy wave of her hand.

"Ron's getting married here?"

"Uh, not quite," Ginny shook her head, turned, and pointed her finger towards a neighborhood of trees. "The orchard is where that'll happen. There, they'll declare their love for each other, then run off and have little Rons and little Lavenders of their own." She gagged as she said this.

"Children already?" Hermione asked, horrified. "Surely they'll wait!"

"Doubt it," she visibly shuddered. "Mum's all but shouted in their faces she wants more grandchildren. And it should go without saying she hinted to the rest of us to get a move on."

"Which of your brothers isn't married yet?"

"Three, I believe," Ginny answered, her eyes drifting off to the side in thought. "Charlie's one, Percy's another but he's engaged, and George is the third."

"Then you?"

"Then me," Ginny confirmed. "And I'd like to stay that way."

"You don't want to get married?"

"Sure I do," she replied, "but long after I finish with the Harpies." She laughed once. "Mum isn't too happy about that. She thinks raising children is much more rewarding than playing Quidditch."

"Everyone's different," Hermione said.

"Try telling her that." Ginny swished her long red hair behind her shoulder. "Every time she sees me, she always manages to work in _nice husband_ and _many children_. It's all rather suffocating, really. Charlie, on the other hand, has it much worse than me."

"What's that?" a deep voice asked from the back door.

Hermione looked over and saw, who she presumed to be Charlie, walking over to them. She was a bit surprised to find he was rather short, though what he lacked in height he certainly made up in his arms for they were as thick as tree trunks. Hermione thought his black T-shirt would surely rip along his biceps. His jeans were dirtied and worn but Hermione believed he would've looked out of place if they weren't. As he came closer, she saw the red hair on his head was cut short while his sapphire blue eyes were like the deepest wells of the ocean. Hermione was momentarily lost in them. His lips were full and his neck was decorated by a confetti of freckles. He was handsome, sure, but not as much as-

"What're you on about?" he asked Ginny.

"What's it to you?"

"Just curious," he shrugged, standing on the other side of the low garden wall. He turned towards Hermione, stuck out his hand, and said, "Charlie Weasley, this one's," he nodded his head at Ginny, "second-oldest brother."

"Hermione Granger," she greeted. As they shook hands, Hermione noticed his hand was so large that it completely enveloped hers. She also felt a thick layer of calluses.

"Mind telling me what she's so hysterical about?"

"Hysterical?" Ginny repeated incredulously.

"Just about wedding discussions," Hermione said simply. "That and how your mum is advocating for a house full of grandchildren in the near future."

Charlie snorted. "If she had it her way, the Burrow'd be brimming with screaming little kids blowing snot balloons. I mean, it'd be a floor of boogers inside and we'd all be stepping on 'em."

"There's a pleasant thought," Ginny said humorlessly. "You come up with that on your own?"

He ignored her. "That's not for me."

"So you don't want to have any children?" Hermione asked.

"Definitely not," he shook his head. "Nasty little trolls, they are."

"Don't mind him," Ginny interjected. "He'll die under the wings of one his dragons."

"Couldn't think of a better death!" he stated proudly, pumping out his chest, reminding Hermione of one of the sheep back in Diagon Alley that did the same with Harry when he was signing the herd's Quidditch posters of him.

"You ever think of seeing a psychiatrist at St Mungo's?" Ginny asked. "You could do with one, you know."

"I could do with one? Please," he waved away. "You were the one ranting this morning like a headless chicken that the two birds in your room will drive you mad all day."

"How about you spend the day with them and see how you fare!"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Go away," he said. "Mum wants me to get rid of all these weeds before the wedding."

"Oh, you're actually going to do some work around here?" Ginny now had her hands on her hips.

"I happen to have a full-time job," he said.

"And playing professional Quidditch isn't?"

"You still live here," Charlie pointed out.

"So? I'm away for weeks at a time when we have to play teams across the world."

"Doesn't make a difference," he said. "You could still put in a bit of effort 'round the place."

"What does it take? A simple spell that'll get rid of everything?"

"Pretty much," Charlie nodded. "It's so easy even you could do it."

Ginny huffed, grabbed Hermione's arm, and dragged her away none too lightly. She heard Charlie call after them, "Be careful with that one, Hermione!"

As she aviated Hermione over towards a small lake behind the orchard, Hermione asked, "Charlie's a bit on a losing streak, is he?"

Ginny looked over at her curiously. "What does that mean?"

"Harry told me you tend to go back and forth between Bill and Charlie over which is your favorite brother."

"Harry told you this?" When Hermione nodded, Ginny arched a brow. "When?"

"This past Monday," she said. "I stopped by his place for a bit."

"Were you invited?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, I wasn't expected."

"Hang on, how do you know where he lives?" Ginny sat on the shore and Hermione did the same. They slipped off their shoes drowned their feet in the water. Hermione was grateful for the sun overhead to fever the water's temperature up a bit. Otherwise, she would've been cold.

"He told me," she said. "He was actually interested we both lived in Godric's Hollow."

"I thought you took a flat in London?" Ginny asked. "West Brompton, was it?"

"That's where my parents live," Hermione corrected. "I decided on Godric's Hollow."

Ginny's face lit up. "Are you two neighbors?"

"No," Hermione said, looking out over the water. It shimmered under the sun as if diamonds skirted its surface. "I live more northeast and he lives all the way west."

"I take it you both were more cordial than back in Diagon Alley when we went dress shopping?"

"We were cordial then," Hermione defended.

"It didn't seem like it. In fact, it appeared you two were the opposite."

"I was just annoyed he bought a book for me at Flourish and Blotss," Hermione huffed.

"Is that what you were so worked up about?" When Hermione nodded, Ginny whistled, "I was wondering because you weren't very talkative afterwards."

"He put me in a bad mood, is all."

"By doing you a favor?"

"He didn't do me a favor of anything," Hermione said. "I was fully capable of purchasing that book myself! And he should've let me!"

"Did it ever cross your mind that he was just trying to be nice? I mean, Merlin, it was just a book, wasn't it?"

As a soft wind hummed over the lake, the water became pregnant with ripples. Hermione watched these minute waves lap their ankles. "I faced a lot of prejudice back in France for being Muggle-born. Even though I could do magic, I was still treated as an outsider. So all throughout school, I had to prove myself to others, and it was the same in the Ministère des Affairs Magiques de la France. It was belittling to say the very least, being tended to like a child, and those that did weren't sincere about it all. They treated it like a joke. I ignored it for the most part thinking one day it'd die down."

"Did it?" Ginny asked.

"Somewhat," Hermione said. "But it was still always there. It's like I couldn't escape the fact that I'm Muggle-born because you can't change who you are. And honestly, I never wanted to change."

"Is that why you left France?"

"No," Hermione shook her head. "I left because England's my home and I wanted to come back."

"Then why'd you move to France in the first place?"

"Mum's parents were both very sick, and it was only a matter of time before they passed away. The move was never supposed to be long term, only for a summer, actually. They were in the transition of opening a second dental practice-,"

"A what?" Ginny looked confused.

"Oh, right," Hermione said. "My parents are dentists." When she saw Ginny's face was left blank, Hermione explained, "They tend to people's teeth."

Confusion morphed into revulsion. "That sounds utterly horrible!"

"Yeah, it's not everyone's cup of tea," Hermione acknowledged. "Anyway, they looked into opening their second dental practice in France instead of England."

"They liked it that much?"

"They loved it," Hermione smiled. "And to be fair, I did too. Mind you, I had no idea about magic at the time."

"How old were you?"

Hermione lightly bit down on her lower lip. "Seven or eight. We made the move a couple of years before I would've received my letter from Hogwarts if I had stayed here."

Ginny began braiding her hair as she kept her eyes on the water. "What about the Book of Admittance?"

"The what?"

"It's a book at Hogwarts that records the name of every magical child born in Great Britain. I'd imagine your name was written down and all but what happened when you moved to France? Does Beauxbatons have something similar?"

Hermione thought over the books she purchased from Montmarte Place Cachée on Beauxbatons after she got her acceptance letter, wanting to learn every little detail about the school she would be attending for the next seven years. She also wanted to put her parents' minds at ease given the fact they weren't completely confident having Hermione learn magic was such a good idea. However, nowhere from her readings could she remember Beauxbatons having any such book documenting the births of magical children. And though it was completely understandable each school had its own approach in which students were allowed to study there, the Book of Admittance in some form or another would seem universal among magical schools.

"I'm not sure about that, actually," Hermione said. "I can't remember reading anything about it."

Ginny frowned as she continued to play with her hair. Hermione considered the notion she was doing this inattentively in that it was something to do as she thought.

"But the point I was making is that Harry buying that book reminded me of all the _help _I received back in France. People looking at me and seeing this poor, Muggle-born girl who knew absolutely nothing about the magical community at all. It was degrading and I hated it. I managed to do well all by myself before now and I didn't have any help to get to where I was in France and to where I am now."

"I mean, it's not that I don't believe you or anything," Ginny began, rubbing away at her legs, "but Harry's not like that. He's a good guy."

"So good he'd buy gifts for people he just met?"

"Well, technically, you two didn't just meet-,"

"You know what I mean," Hermione cut across, and Ginny shrugged. Curling her toes into the sand, she said, "It's just strange to me that he would be so forward."

"You should be thankful for that."

Hermione looked over and saw Ginny wave her wand and conjure a towel out of thin air. She spread it out behind her on the grass and laid down on it, pillowing her hands behind her head. Hermione gathered that even though Molly intended for her daughter to spend the day with Lavender and Parvati, Ginny had no intention of doing so…at least, for the time being.

"Why's that?"

"He was very moody growing up," she said. "Not that I blame him, of course," she added on quickly. "With Voldemort trying to kill him at every opportunity, naturally he was bound to sulk around."

"But he changed?"

Ginny, who had since closed her eyes against the sun, popped an eyelid open at her. "You've seen him since," she said.

"I didn't know him before, though, so I don't have anything to compare him to."

"Well, obviously he changed, and it was for the better if you ask me. He did away with being so gloomy all the time and lightened up, and made it manageable to be around him. He's actually good-natured in everything he does…like buying you a book." She smiled. "It's just how he is."

Hermione considered this as overhead, a highway of clouds trafficked across the sun. They shadowed the water, making it lose its glimmer. Now, the lake looked like nothing more than a flooded pond. She watched the water regain its radiance slowly as the clouds floated away.

"You know that Harry decorated my office?"

Both of Ginny's eyes flew open at this as she sat up and put her hands behind her. "He did what?"

"Decorated my office," Hermione repeated.

"Without any invitation?"

"Oh, trust me, I think my office was fine the way it was."

"If you want my opinion," Ginny began quietly, playing with the edge of the towel, "it was kinda dull. That window of yours was the only thing interesting about your office." Taking her feet out of the water and waving her wand at them to dry them off, she asked, "What is it of again?"

"Montmarte Place Cachée," Hermione said. "It's similar to Diagon Alley, only that it's in France instead. Paris to be more specific."

Ginny nodded as she crossed her legs. "So what did he do to it?"

"One wall is completely filled with posters of every Quidditch player of the British and Irish league, and another is-,"

"Me too?" Ginny asked excitedly.

Hermione pursed her lips at Ginny's lack of understanding of why her office renovation was so unnecessary.

"Yes, you're there," Hermione confirmed dully.

"And what am I doing in my poster?" she asked, and looked rather excited, her face flushed. "I remember taking a couple of shots doing some of this and that but I'm not sure which one he chose." Without waiting for an answer, she thought aloud, "I don't believe he'd go with the one where I'm performing the Dionysus Dive. The wind was horrid when that was taken and too much of my hair ended up in my mouth," she told Hermione. "The Spiral Dive is another but I was flying so fast the camera couldn't follow me! I was rather blurry. I have to say, I was easily seen in the Wronski Feint print but the color was a bit off and really-,"

"Actually," Hermione interrupted loudly for Ginny seemed to be on the cusp of doing away with the wedding later to go on and instead pen a novel on which of her Quidditch posters she liked and didn't, "I don't really remember. There were just so many, you see. It was like a maze trying to find Harry's even."

Ginny shrugged, agreeing with this, as she asked, "What about Harry? What's his poster of?"

Hermione thought about this for a moment, not having much interest to commit this to memory, before she said, "A simple one of him and the Golden Snitch."

Ginny's brows pulled together across her head as another wind, this one quite strong, stormed over them. Ginny's hair twirled around her shoulder prettily. "I don't know of that one."

"You've seen all of his posters, have you?"

"Yeah," she said, "or at least I thought I did. This one with him and the Snitch must be new though."

A stray thought crept into Hermione's mind about how the poster of Harry in her office was different from the one he signed for the sheep herd in Diagon Alley. Perhaps it was a new edition, not yet available for sale, or maybe it was put on hold to wait until after England won the World Cup, in that sales of posters of every player on the team would surely surge. And honestly, working in the British and Irish League Headquarters, she knew the odds for England to win were very, very good. This actually reminded Hermione of another subject matter she meant to bring up.

"What do you think about the proposed Quidditch complex?" she asked Ginny.

She snorted rather loudly, and a bird from a nearby tree took flight. "It's needed, and terribly too. But funding's an issue, isn't it?"

"It's the only thing that's stopping the Quidditch complex from being built," Hermione verified.

She groaned, "That can't be it though! There has to be some other way to come up with the money. I mean, the Quidditch complex is like life support! If the other teams want to have even a chance to remain as reasonable competitors to other teams around the world, having separate pitches makes the most sense! Doesn't it?"

"I agree," Hermione said, hoping Ginny would calm down. She could tell Ginny was a hot-head and wagered her temper was always a drop away from overflowing. "But I think I might have a way around it."

Ginny whipped her head over to Hermione so fast she was surprised Ginny's neck hadn't complained about whiplash.

"What? What is it?"

"I was thinking the British and Irish League Headquarters could host a gala." Unlike Harry who didn't have any idea what a gala was, Ginny's eyes lit up like stars in the night.

"That could work!" Ginny exclaimed, a smile on her lips. "Assuming that a good amount of people would be willing to attend, everyone could pitch in a small share, and we'd be gold by the end of the night!" Hermione thought Ginny to be in a bit of a daze as her face glossed over like a wax figure. "Any idea when this is going to take place?"

"Hang on," Hermione said. "The gala has yet to be approved. Mr. Bagman and I are going to appeal to the Department of Magical Games and Sports Monday morning. It's up to them to decide if the gala is good to go or not."

"They'd be fools otherwise," Ginny said. "They've known for a long time that the current setup is absolute rubbish. And for all the complaining the Quidditch teams have done, there's been no action on their part."

"It's the government," Hermione shrugged. "The Muggle one isn't much better."

As Ginny muttered her agreement, Hermione's thoughts wandered back to what Harry would look like in dress robes for the gala. She didn't know why she was so fixated on this but there was something about a man in a suit that commanded her attention. And this is why she was secretly looking forward to the wedding tonight: Harry would be there, and he would certainly be in dress robes. She didn't believe she was at all shallow for mentally salivating about a famous Quidditch star dressed in a suit. In fact, she was under the impression this was completely normal, for it wasn't just men that had needs, women did too. If all that came out of this was mere fantasies, then Hermione would be perfectly okay with it. Because really, Harry wouldn't actually be attracted to someone like her. Would he?

Hermione looked over her shoulder when she heard a call from behind them. She saw movement through an open window. It looked like people were congregating around the kitchen table.

"Think we should go in?" Hermione asked.

Ginny, who had since resumed her position of lying back on the towel, replied, "Only if you're hungry. Mum's made a spot of breakfast."

Hermione wasn't much of a breakfast eater even though her parents told her it was the most important meal of the day. She simply didn't care for it, and wagered she never would.

"Don't you think it'd be a bit rude to stay out here until the wedding?"

"Not really," Ginny said. "There's no doubt that spending just a couple of minutes with Lavender and Parvati would make me want to put my head through a window. Before you got here, Lavender was complaining that her wedding dress was making her bottom look smaller than it really was, and Parvati was criticizing how my hair color didn't match those of my bed sheets." She rolled her eyes. "I guess working for _Witch Weekly _limits intelligent conversation."

"_Witch Weekly_?" Hermione asked, being unfamiliar with it.

"It's some silly magazine with articles, quizzes, advice columns, and recipes. They also have an entire section dedicated to the most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes, not that that means anything being that most of those that are subscribed to _Witch Weekly _are underage. It was pretty popular at Hogwarts and all."

"It sounds elementary," Hermione said.

"It is," Ginny agreed. "Their best-selling edition was when they ran a story about some slapper that claimed Harry fathered a child with her." Hermione's stomach dropped. "It wasn't true of course," helium elevated Hermione's stomach back to its original position, "though he did admit he slept with her a couple of times." And just like that, the helium evaporated into nothingness. All Hermione was waiting for was the plunge her stomach would surely take soon after.

* * *

**A/N**: Please let me know what you think of this chapter! And again, don't worry about unnecessary angst (pertaining to the last paragraph in this chapter) as I already said I'm not a fan of it. But it'll certainly be addressed later. Also, I do happen to like both Ron and Ginny, though they won't play much of an integral role from here on out. Thanks for reading.


	5. A Voyage without Sails

**Living for Living's Sake**

* * *

Chapter 5: A Voyage without Sails

* * *

Hermione couldn't help it but she was jealous, even though she had no reason to be. Wouldn't it be obvious that famous Quidditch players are sought after for sexual affairs because of their fame, and that Harry would be seen as a crowning jewel because of the fact that he is a Quidditch player, a good one at that apparently, and he managed to defeat Voldemort? Quite frankly, Hermione wouldn't be surprised if stories about the potency of Harry's baby batter appeared as front page news of the _Daily Prophet. _She suspected that, using Ginny's words, _the slapper_, wasn't the first claim of giving birth to Harry's child and certainly wouldn't be the last.

But no matter if such stories were libelous, resentment simmered inside her like an uncontrollable wildfire burning under a summer sun. She just couldn't help it. In fact, the more she thought about it, the bigger the fire grew, and her bitterness was directed at both the slags who went bed hopping every night, and thus could not determine who the father of their child was, and at Harry himself. She supposed the latter was a bit unfair. Then again, so were her feelings, and as a result, the two canceled each other out.

The question that really bugged her was if she actually liked Harry. She already deemed him good-looking and his Quidditch robes made him downright fanciable. The messy hair, the scar on his forehead, his bright green eyes, and even his glasses have added together to become the protagonist of her dreams ever since she met him. In the beginning, these were quite uncomfortable to experience because the field between them had not yet been pastured. However, their meetings since have been like rainwater, and the meadow has continued to grow greener. But it's not only his looks that make him appealing, it's how humble he is.

She incorrectly hypothesized that those with a celebrity status were automatically pretentious individuals and they thought that commoners were well beneath the ground they happened to walk on. Yet, Harry was different. Tag-teamed against his infamous survival of the Killing Curse, along with being a prodigy at Quidditch, it was already established that he was more popular than any previous or the current Minister for Magic. But his modesty set for him a different path his life was to captain. It was as if he knew how famous he was but he always tried to act like he wasn't. To her, that tipped the scales of attractiveness in Harry's favor. On top of that, he was kind, demonstrated by mending her bloodied hand with Dittany back in Diagon Alley, and displayed shades of intelligence in the Quidditch complex draft. And in terms of physicality, well, his biceps left little to be desired and she was positive his abdomen was chiseled out of stone. That's not even mentioning his oxford blue boxer shorts! She began to imagine what Harry would look like in just his oxford blue boxer shorts when-

"You okay in there?" Ginny asked, knocking on the door. Hermione jumped, having been momentarily lost in her reverie. She was in Bill's old room getting changed as Lavender, and to a lesser extent, Parvati, had Ginny's room under monopoly, much to her chagrin.

"I'm ready," Hermione called back. She looked at herself in the floor mirror, willing the bouquets of red that bloomed down her neck to recede. Harry in just his oxford blue boxer shorts made her rather hot.

Ginny stepped inside and looked at Hermione. She scrutinized her before she said, "Be right back," and took out of Bill's room. Hermione heard her heels on the stairs.

Looking out the window, Hermione saw that guests had started to arrive as small cliques of people had already formed. She wondered if Harry was down there, thinking his attire today would be a good indicator of how he'd dress at the gala. (That is if the gala was approved at all.) Her eyes ping-ponged from one head to the other, trying to locate his untidy black hair, quickly surmising it was rather difficult to see who someone was if all she had to look at was the tops of people's heads. She then wondered if he took a comb to himself so that he looked presentable for his best friend's wedding. But if she was to be honest with herself, she hoped he didn't as she found his disheveled hair to be rather charming.

"My heels are an utter nightmare," Ginny whined, walking back into Bill's room with her stilettos floating behind her. She had an armful of what looked like plastic jam jars, dropping one of them as she kicked the door closed.

Hermione reached down, picked it up, and read its label, "Sleekeazy's Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment. What's this?"

Dumping the jars on Bill's bed with a sigh, Ginny grabbed her stilettos and threw them unceremoniously on the floor, and Hermione could've sworn the heels made a mark when they hit the wood.

"You look nice and all, but the hair is what is going to bring your whole appearance together," Ginny said, uncapping a jar.

"I don't have to have an appearance," Hermione stated, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Yes you do," Ginny bit back instantly. "Besides, there's a lot of competition outside already." Dumping the entire contents of one jar into her palm, Hermione saw it was a gel-like substance, she rubbed her hands together, and got to work on Hermione's hair.

"Competition?" Hermione asked. "I don't think I follow."

She saw Ginny roll her eyes in the mirror. "You know…with Harry and all."

Hermione raised her brows and said, "Hang on a second. You don't think I like Harry, do you?" Truthfully, she figured she did in her own way but that didn't mean she wanted everyone to know.

"Please, do you think I'm blind?" Ginny grabbed another jar and unscrewed its lid. "I saw how you were when we talked about him this morning, especially when I mentioned that _Witch Weekly _drag."

"I was just surprised people would come up with such blatant lies," Hermione grumbled irritably. "And to bring your own child into it is utterly classless."

"Just another Galleon-digger," Ginny shrugged.

"You think all she wanted was money?"

She saw Ginny's brows magnetize together, digging plow lines across her head. "That, fame, and potentially snagging Harry all to herself."

"Snagging Harry?" Hermione repeated. "What does that mean?"

"Listen, you can tell yourself whatever you want, but Harry is extremely fanciable," Ginny said. "To put it simply, he's very good-looking, and because of that, he's well sought after."

"By idiotic sheep herds, no doubt," Hermione rolled her eyes, thinking of the girls back in Diagon Alley that dogged him until he signed their posters.

"Not all the time though," Ginny pointed out. "Sometimes he attracts those that can think for themselves."

"So why hasn't he settled down yet?"

"I'm not sure, actually," Ginny frowned, uncapping yet another jar. "You can ask him yourself later, but I imagine it has something to do with Quidditch."

This reminded her of a conversation she had earlier in the week. "You know, I think that's it," Hermione said. "Mr Bagman told me that downtime for Quidditch players is very limited."

Ginny snorted. "How intelligent of him."

"You don't think so?"

"I do, it's just that Ludo has a really bad gambling problem. I imagine he only took the job as head of the British and Irish League Headquarters to pay off his debts."

"Harry also mentioned he had a gambling issue," Hermione said, ignoring Ginny's furtive smile at the mention of Harry's name. "Is he really that bad?"

"I'll put it this way: Ludo still owes money to the goblins he borrowed from over ten years ago. He's an alright guy and all, but he thinks it's his Quidditch skills that has everyone in the league still talking about him when it's really his finances."

"People laugh behind his back then?" Hermione asked, unsure how she felt that her boss was being played by the current crop of Quidditch players, the same ones he always spoke so highly of.

"It's more like a snicker than anything else," Ginny told her, completely unbothered by the fact.

Hermione supposed that it was Mr Bagman's gambling controversies that kept him from enjoying his holiday to France. Because Ginny was right in that Mr Bagman was a good guy, even if he was rather childish at times. It made him quite delightful in some ways, and downright abhorrent in others. She then supposed if he was willing, she could set forth a plan in which Mr Bagman would be able to pay off his debts before the end of the year. However, keeping him from taking and placing bets was a whole other problem that would not be easy to stop. She decided it would be best to approach this after the gala was hopefully approved, as she knew he was more apt to agree even with utter nonsense when he was in a good mood.

"Ugh, this stuff feels disgusting," Ginny said, conjuring a towel with a small wave of her wand and wiping her hands on it. She then grabbed two more jars and opened them.

"Do you really think that much is necessary?" Hermione asked wearily, watching Ginny roll together a large amount of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion as if she was looking to build a snowman.

"Normally, no," Ginny said. "But your hair is really frizzy. It's like there's an animal inside trying to give birth or something."

"Well," Hermione huffed, "that was a bit insulting."

"That's what it looks like to me," Ginny shrugged. As she eased more of the potion through Hermione's hair, she said, "Trust me that it'll all be worth it."

As the volume of the wedding guests bled in through the window, Hermione said, "Don't you think you're selling Harry short by thinking he'll be taken by appearances? I mean, he didn't seem that shallow before."

"He isn't," Ginny assured, "but you don't need me to tell you that everyone sees with their eyes first. Sure, having a connection is important and all. I'm not denying that in the slightest. Still, you have to look somewhat approachable to establish that connection in the first place."

"And you don't think I'd be approachable with the hair that I have?"

"Not exactly but you'll turn heads, including Harry's, with your hair looking manageable." Cleaning her hands on the towel again, she said, "You don't have to worry about anything. I'll have you looking better than even Lavender and Parvati put together."

Hermione couldn't help but smile as she asked, "Should I refer anyone who asks me about my hair to you?"

Ginny backhanded the air. "Please, I won't help anyone else to try and get Harry to notice 'em."

Looking at her in the mirror, Hermione asked, "Does everyone that's single try to land him? Surely there are other contenders."

"He's the best though," Ginny said simply. "I imagine some birds cry in a random corner when they realize being with him is next to impossible-,"

"That's horrible," Hermione said.

"-while others that have been with him have their own crying sessions when he chooses not to see them again."

She saw Ginny take a quick peek out the window before zeroing back in on Hermione's hair.

"Does he, um, date around a lot?" Hermione asked. "Harry, I mean," she thought to add.

Ginny didn't respond right away, and Hermione noticed. Truthfully, she supposed he did especially with Ginny modeling some birds to have deemed it an outright honor they breathed the same air as he did. And Ginny was right in that everyone sees with their eyes first. Thus, she was certain Ginny had witnessed, as she had done herself back at Beauxbatons, that men act on instinct, namely that when it came to shagging. She saw many relationships at school fail because there was a diverse pool of nests for which to seed, and temptations among hormonal teenage boys were like cold lemonade on a hot day.

"At one time," Ginny nodded.

"But not anymore?" Hermione was surprised.

"Not so much now," she confirmed. "He hated how his relationships were on the front page of every edition of the _Prophet_." She laughed. "He actually compared it to a more posh _Witch Weekly_."

"What business did they have of doing that?" Hermione asked, growing angry.

"They were the ones that sold the best," Ginny said. "I think the public's more interested in Harry's private life than even Harry is." Shaking her head, she continued, "I'd imagine once he wraps up his Quidditch career, he'll leave England and go somewhere else, where people don't know who he is or they just don't care."

Hermione considered this before she said, "Well, he does seem like the type of person who keeps more to himself. Anyone like that would prefer to be left alone, I'm sure."

"And are you the same?" Ginny asked.

Hermione softly dragged her knuckles down the side of her neck. "I suppose I am in a way," she said slowly, having never thought much of if she was a private person or not. "I kind of like a quiet life. That's how it was growing up with just my parents and no siblings."

"Have you ever wanted a brother or sister?"

In the mirror, Hermione saw Ginny wipe her hands on the towel once more before flicking her wand and banishing it out of existence.

"I don't know," she replied. "I guess I never particularly cared one way or the other."

"Hmm," Ginny hummed, raking her fingers through her hair. "I love my brothers and all, really I do, but sometimes I kinda wonder what it'd be like being an only child."

"It's quiet," Hermione offered, and Ginny laughed.

It was then that Parvati burst into the room, her face a sea of stress. Wildly throwing her hands in the air and letting them smack against her thighs loudly, she demanded, "Ginny, where have you been?"

"Hermione needed some help with her hair," she pointed her finger.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, one that Hermione thought sounded more like a growl, she said, "I've been looking for you everywhere and-,"

"The place isn't that big," Ginny cut across.

"-the wedding's about to start!" she finished as if there had been no interruption. "We need to get ready outside! Now come on!" Unable to wait, Parvati rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

"Would it be too much to ask that she trip?" Ginny muttered. "A tumble would do her some good."

Hermione smirked as she said, "We should probably get going."

"Sure," Ginny agreed. "The sooner this thing's over, the better."

Hermione stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. She had on a baby blue lace dress that stopped just above her knees. It was comfortable and hugged her body nicely. And apart from matching sandals, a skinny bracelet looped her wrist. Not accustomed to wearing jewelry all that often, the only thing she found necessary was her bracelet and that was only for special occasions.

"How's your hair?" Ginny asked, ignoring the shrill voice of Parvati calling her name from somewhere below.

"I love it," Hermione said softly, and she really did. Ginny managed to tame her wild mane into a sleek and shiny waterfall down her back. Of course, that was with loads of help from Sleekeazy's Hair Potion because without it, she was sure even the most talented of hands wouldn't be able to make it look presentable for a wedding. "Do you mind if I put it up?"

"No, go right ahead," Ginny said.

Waving her wand, her hair twisted into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She looked at it in the mirror before nodding at it, finding it satisfactory.

"Keep the rest of what's left of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion," Ginny said, taking out of the room at Parvati's scream. As Hermione scooped the remaining jars into her hands, she thought the maid of honor would surely lose her voice before the ceremony even began.

* * *

After Hermione put the unused Sleekeazy's Hair Potion in her bag in Ginny's room (_This dress is far too loose! _Lavender wailed. _My bottom is much bigger than this!_), she went out the back door, minding the Flutterby bushes that flanked either side of it. Her eyes toured the back garden quickly and surmised Charlie had done a bang-up job on getting rid of the weeds. She smiled to herself thinking about what Ginny would say as she seemed to have a good camaraderie with him, even if Bill was her favorite brother for the time being.

Exiting the garden, Hermione hugged herself as she walked over to the orchard, passing the stone outhouse that Ginny before told her had since been converted into a broom shed. She was actually feeling rather excited for the wedding, being too young to remember the last one she attended. She believed it was one of her dad's nieces, but since her parents had had her late, she was nearly two decades younger than her cousins and had little contact with them.

A midnight blue hued overhead while small purple clouds bruised the sky. Bees and butterflies swam in the orbit of the grass and hedgerow while a family of birds erupted out of a nearby tree. They flew in the direction of the setting sun, it like a sinking ship that haloed distant hills. Though rather warm around midday, the temperature took a bit of a tumble and now felt pleasant. Ginny told Hermione earlier that Ron preferred to get married later in the day when the air promised to be cooler. Apparently when Bill and Fleur got married, the summer heat was a lot to handle, especially for the men in dress robes. This made Hermione mentally wonder if Cooling Charms were even taught at Hogwarts.

Taking closer to the orchard, she saw that a paddock ringed it. She stalked its perimeter and bled in with a small group of people that were making their way inside. Above her, an avenue of wind made the branches of the trees whisper together. In the clearing, twin pools of white chairs were separated by a wide aisle while at the front there was a bowed arbor of blue turquoise flowers, the color matching the stringed lights that were wound around the trees of the orchard. Looking around, the only people Hermione recognized were Ginny's brothers, most of whom she had met earlier, and decided to sit right behind them in the second row. She also saw that their Auntie Muriel was next to them, a dead raven perched atop her hat, though she hadn't spoken with her yet.

Excited chatter and anticipation grew behind her as she noticed most of the guests were rather young. Then again, Ginny (and Harry) did tell her that a majority of them would be around their age, and thus invited her to meet some new people being that she didn't know many since moving back to England. However, just as she shifted in her seat to introduce herself to the girl next to her, she saw him…she saw Harry.

He stood behind Ron in a cream-colored suit and brown shoes, with a single white rose in his buttonhole. Much to Hermione's delight, his hair was messy and it looked like he hadn't even tried to run a comb through it. His bright green eyes scanned the crowd, waving and nodding to those he thought to acknowledge, and though Hermione tried to look away, she couldn't. Thus, it was all too soon when they found each other. When his eyes locked on hers, Hermione's breath hitched in her throat and timidity washed over her, making gooseflesh erupt down her arms. She felt trapped, and for all intents and purposes, she didn't really care. She tried a small smile, hoping it didn't turn out to be a grimace instead, and Harry gave one back.

"I'm glad these trees don't have mistletoe in them," the girl next to Hermione suddenly said. She broke her contact with Harry to look at her. "Nargles are known to infest them."

"Nargles?" Hermione was confused as she never heard of such a thing. "What are those, exactly?"

"Mischievous thieves," the girl said seriously, her eyes wide. "Dirigible plum-shaped earrings and Butterbeer cork necklaces are the only things that keep them away." Hermione, staring at the girl, saw that she had straggly, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, and bright yellow dress robes with sunflowers. "If you have anything valuable, be sure not to stand under any mistletoe." Then quite abruptly, the girl turned back around to face the front, acting as if she and Hermione hadn't spoken a word to each other.

Hermione, rather disoriented by the girl's strange demeanor and irrational belief in Nargles, looked back at Harry only to see him talking quietly with Ron. When they finished, she tried not to feel disappointed when he didn't look back her way. Yet, she was still content with just staring at him, no matter how creepy it was, because he looked particularly handsome. Of course she had been right in that Harry looked good in dress robes…when was she ever wrong?

Soft music then flooded the orchard from a group of house-elves in glitzy purple jackets and rustic-looking instruments. They were jammed between two trees though they didn't seem to mind at all. Mr and Mrs Weasley came down the aisle first, sporting new dress robes purchased solely by Ron. According to Ginny, Mrs Weasley and Lavender weren't on the best of terms as she thought Ron could do a bit better in finding a more suitable wife. Lavender took offense to this and threatened to elope.

Ginny followed after, smiling politely, and Parvati came next. Both were holding a bouquet of flowers and wore gold dresses that hugged their ankles. Finally, Lavender and her father walked down the aisle, she in a wedding dress that Hermione thought was rather low-cut and thus showed an unnecessarily large amount of cleavage, and he in dress robes that looked ready to burst at the seams over his watermelon-shaped belly.

"Yes, it does look like something a village girl would wear," Aunt Muriel said to Charlie rather loudly. Hermione palmed her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

A very small wizard wearing a pointed hat that looked far too big on his head climbed atop of two wooden crates and began the ceremony. Hermione tried to listen politely, but every other second, she found herself looking (or perhaps drooling?) over at Harry. And it wasn't a one-sided affair because he, too, kept glancing at her. When he did, she would grow rather hot. She didn't really know what was wrong with her being that she was never one to only account for physical appearances in a potential partner. There were more important things like intelligence, friendliness, and humility. Yet who did she know to have a big influence in the Quidditch complex draft? Who had healed her hand back in Diagon Alley? And who seemed rather uncomfortable with his fame? The answer to every question was the one, and most likely only, person who seemed to pay her more attention than the actual wedding ceremony itself.

Ron and Lavender exchanged vows though Hermione really couldn't hear them since Mrs Weasley was crying up a severe storm, the likes of which was like an once-in-a-lifetime meteorological event for the residents of Ottery St Catchpole. Meanwhile, Aunt Muriel had since moved on from Lavender's choice of dress and decided to focus on her and Ron's eventual offspring. (_You think they'll have red hair or blonde? _she asked Charlie. _We actually might not have to wait too long! I'd imagine the village girl is already pregnant._) After the officiator declared Ron and Lavender were bonded for life, he waved his wand, almost tipping backwards as his wand was nearly as tall as him, and a shower of silver stars fell over the couple. They were applauded as they kissed, making Hermione smile. She was then amused at Ginny's look of disgust over Ron and Lavender's outward affection for each other.

"If you would please stand, ladies and gentlemen!" the small wizard called. His voice squeaked like a mouse.

"I'm a hundred and sixteen, I am!" Muriel yelled at the officiator, waving a fist at him threateningly.

He ignored her as he waved his wand in a large arc. The chairs they had been sitting on rose in the air as bunches of them joined together. Hermione thought it looked as if each collection of chairs was its own tribe. They then spiraled in small circles quickly and fell back on the ground as large round tables in white cloth and chairs popped into existence around each one. A gold teardrop then shot out of the officiator's wand and bulleted the clearing's floor. As soon as it did, a gleaming dance floor swarmed over the grass. Waiters in purple waistcoats, similar to that of the house-elves, then merged with the crowd on all sides, and they carried silver trays of refreshments and foods.

Hermione grabbed a glass of butterbeer, her mouth having gone rather dry under Harry's continued glances at her during the ceremony. Taking a large sip, she looked around and saw a mass of people rush Ron and Lavender like rabid Neanderthals. She figured she should thank them for allowing her to attend their wedding but figured she'd do that later, especially when they weren't being suffocated.

Wandering over to a random table, she set her butterbeer down, and pulled out a chair. However, before she could sit down, a voice behind her said, "Glad you could make it."

She turned around and saw Harry. Unable to help herself, she smiled at him. "And you as well," she told him. When he looked puzzled, she explained, "If I remember correctly, you really weren't all that excited about the wedding."

"It isn't mine," he shrugged.

"So? You can still be happy for your friend."

"I am," he nodded. "But I'm just not excited."

After downing a small nip of her drink, Hermione said, "Well, it was actually very nice."

"You didn't expect it to be?"

"Quite honestly, I didn't really know what to expect. I haven't been to many weddings and the ones I did go to, I don't remember too well."

Harry frowned as he guessed, "Too young?"

"Long before I started at Beauxbatons," she confirmed. "But if this wedding is the first one I'll be able to recall in its entirety, it was a good one to start with." Looking around, she said, "Everything here's really charming."

"You get the full tour yet?"

"This morning," Hermione nodded. "Ginny told me to arrive at nine."

"Nine?" Harry repeated. "So you've been here the whole day?"

"Practically," Hermione answered.

"Why so early?"

"Apparently, Ginny isn't too taken with Lavender and Parvati," Hermione said. "Her mum wanted her to spend the day with them, and she supposed they'd drive her mad."

"So she asked for support?"

"Some support I was," Hermione laughed. "We didn't even spend five minutes with them."

"What'd you do instead?" he asked, and he looked genuinely interested.

"Talked," Hermione replied, "by the lake just there," and pointed to the water that was swimming just behind the trees of the orchard. It was dark now, and it tinged with blue turquoise from the ceremony.

"Good place to go swimming," Harry insisted.

"You've done it often?"

"A couple of times," he answered, "when it was hot out."

Hermione nearly choked on her butterbeer. Though Harry said this innocently, it made her feel guilty of the times she was nearly frothing at the mouth thinking of him in his Quidditch uniform, dress robes, and his oxford blue boxer shorts. To put it simply, she was at the mercy of her own wandering mind. Just imagining Harry in his trunks was too much for her to handle: his bare upper body moving easily through the water, while his lower body covered his-

"You hungry?" Hermione asked urgently, grabbing an entire try from a nearby waiter and pushing it into Harry's chest.

He looked down it, and then back up at her, clearly bewildered. "Are you, you know, feeling okay?"

"Don't be silly, of course I am," she scoffed, setting down her butterbeer, then thinking better of it, she picked her glass back up again and took a long drink of it.

"Here," Harry said, taking the food tray from her and handing it back to the waiter who glared at Hermione and stomped away. "Why don't you sit and I'll grab us something else. Maybe a bit more filling." As she grumbled her approval, he asked, "Any preferences?"

"Surprise me," Hermione said.

He smiled and took to the food table across the clearing.

She watched him go, seeing him greet those he already knew, and enduring a hurricane of kisses from Mrs Weasley. Balancing two plates, he chatted with Ginny, smiling and laughing as she did the same. However, Hermione was then distracted when Aunt Muriel slowly strolled by, hanging onto Charlie's offered arm.

"I'm much too old for such pettiness," she complained.

Charlie snorted. "I hardly think a wedding is petty."

"Perhaps it wouldn't be if Ronald had married someone with class," Muriel said defiantly. "The local tramp is anything but."

Hermione watched them go and while she had yet to meet Aunt Muriel, she was beginning to think it'd be best not to.

As couples began to populate the dance floor, she saw George wave his wand at the two crates the officiator, who had mysteriously disappeared, had been standing on during the wedding. They opened and bottles of Firewhisky and champagne trooped out and flew into the crowd. Hermione followed one's trajectory and saw it bounce against Bill's head. Shooting George a dirty look, he swatted it away and it repeatedly knocked against another guests' head. Meanwhile, Parvati transformed the cutlery into a pack of birds that pecked away at a group of boys who had managed to climb atop a table, their arms around each other's shoulders, and sing wildly out of tune (Hermione thought she heard them say, _Weasley is our king_), and Luna was collecting the leaves off of a nearby tree as if they were Chocolate Frog Cards. She reminded Hermione of the two boys back in Diagon Alley arguing over Harry's own card.

A spider web of small golden lanterns floated above the ceremony as Harry made his way back over. He set down a plate in front of Hermione, and occupied the seat next to her. She tried not to think about how she could feel her leg against his, and wondered if he could too.

"Thanks," Hermione smiled. "This looks delicious."

"I'm sure it is," Harry said. "Mrs Weasley did all the cooking."

"Everything?" Hermione gasped. She looked over at the food table and felt guilty about not offering any form of help to her before.

"She loves it though," Harry replied. "And I'm sure she'll do it for whoever gets married next."

"Percy, right?"

After a moment, Harry asked, "He's engaged, isn't he?"

"That's what Ginny said."

"I kinda forgot about him," and took a bite of lamb chops.

"Where's Ginny, by the way?" Hermione looked around for her. "She didn't want to sit with us?"

"Oh," Harry said, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "Did you want her to?"

"I don't know," Hermione said. "I just thought she would." Truthfully, if she didn't know any better, she supposed Harry actually did invite Ginny to sit with them when he met her at the food table, but she probably declined in order to give Harry and Hermione a bit of privacy. "You know, she helped me with my hair earlier." She didn't know why she felt the need to say this but it was too late to take it back anyway.

Harry looked over at her and she saw his eyes move over her hair. "It looks nice," he said shortly. "But why'd you feel the need to change it? I liked it better before."

Hermione sputtered at this though Harry didn't appear to notice. "You, um…well, it's not permanent," she finally managed.

"That's a good thing," he said, returning to his food.

Hermione, however, didn't. "You liked my hair before?"

He paused with a forkful of veggies halfway to his mouth. "There was nothing wrong with it."

_ It's like there's an animal inside trying to give birth or something_._  
_  
"It was very frizzy," Hermione said. "And I look like a right state in the morning. Ginny must've emptied shelves of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion to get my hair to what it looks like now."

"Yeah," he nodded, "she's a bit taken with appearances." Taking a sip of his drink, he said, "We used date, me and her."

Hermione's eyes grew wide at this. She scanned the ceremony and saw Ginny with the girl who told her about Nargles, a stack of the leaves she took from the tree in her hands. They were talking with Charlie and Aunt Muriel, and Hermione could only guess how that conversation was going. She looked over at Harry and asked, "You did?"

He laughed. "You don't believe me?"

Setting her fork and knife down, Hermione said, "You guys don't act like you've dated before."

"It was a while ago," Harry said, putting down his own silverware. "We both moved on."

"Do you mind telling me what happened? I mean, Ginny's never mentioned it."

"It's a bit dull," he sighed, "but if you're up to it…" to which Hermione nodded. Sitting back in his char and pulling his right ankle on top of his left knee, she saw he had on navy blue socks. They briefly reminded her of his oxford blue boxer shorts covering his-

"I guess I started to notice her, like really notice her, back in fifth year. She was a year below me and Ron and before then, I just saw her as his little sister."

"What changed?" Hermione asked, grabbing her butterbeer. Harry's likeness of shades of blue was slowly driving her mad.

"There was this incident with their dad, Mr Weasley." After glancing around to see if anyone was nearby, he leaned in and nearly whispered, "He was attacked by Voldemort's snake."

Hermione gasped loudly, covering her mouth with her hand. "Was he hurt?"

"Pretty bad," Harry said seriously. "He was taken to St Mungo's hospital and eventually made a full recovery. Anyway, there was talk about the fact that Voldemort was possessing me because of my dream I had of Mr Weasley being attacked."

"You dreamt about it?" Hermione was horrified and couldn't even begin to imagine what he saw.

"That's how he was found," Harry told her. "It happened just before the holiday and I spent the first couple of days not wanting to talk to anyone and wanted no one to talk to me."

This reminded Hermione of her conversation with Ginny that morning when she said that Harry was very moody growing up and tended to sulk around a lot. And now the evidence was Harry's own words to prove that she was right.

"But I forgot that Ginny had an episode with Voldemort before, back in her first year."

"She…she had a dream like yours?" Hermione never would've thought the depth of the beginning of his and Ginny's relationship.

"Not quite," Harry shook his head. "I wasn't exactly possessed when I had that dream, but Ginny was, and she wasn't ever dreaming." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Talking about my experience and comparing it to hers kinda brought us together in a weird way. Like I already said, that was when I saw Ginny as Ginny instead of Ron's little sister."

He took a brief hiatus as the officiator, who had magically reappeared, announced, "And now, Mr Lavender and Mrs Ron will have their first dance as a couple!" There was a scattering of applause at this, with many sharing looks of confusion. Hermione saw that the officiator's cheeks were a strawberry red and thought he was rather tipsy. Perhaps he had downed too much Firewhisky, champagne, or both. There was George to thank for that.

The lanterns above them dimmed considerably as Ron and Lavender took to the dance floor. Everyone was watching them, smiling as they did so, though Ginny was a notable exception, until Aunt Muriel said in a carrying whisper, "The dress is like a street girl's, wouldn't you say Charlie?"

Harry turned back to Hermione and said, "Muriel's a charmer, isn't she?"

Hermione laughed quietly. "She's been like that ever since Lavender and her father walked down the aisle together."

"It'll get worse as the night goes on, too," Harry said. "She tends to drink a lot. Maybe too much."

"Poor Charlie," Hermione sighed as she noticed that he looked like he wanted to go dumpster diving instead of babysitting Aunt Muriel. "Anyhow, what happened with you and Ginny after fifth year?"

He wet his lips and said, "That's when my feelings for her started. She dated Dean," he looked around and pointed at someone with dark hair and dark skin with an unusually long neck like a giraffe's, "that bloke there, for most of the year until they had a row and split up. They're on good terms, too," Harry added, answering Hermione's unasked question. "After Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup, we kissed and started dating afterwards."

"Just like that?"

"Pretty much," Harry said. "But I broke up with her at Dumbledore's funeral. Not the most appropriate place, I know."

"Why?" Hermione asked. "Weren't you happy with her?"

"Over the moon," he said back instantly. "It was just that with Voldemort back and all, I didn't think it'd be safe for her to be intimately associated with me. The last thing I wanted was for Voldemort to use her to get to me. I don't know what I would've done if that'd happened."

"What about after Voldemort was defeated? Did you guys get together then?"

"For a bit," he said, "but it didn't work out. Everything that was there between us before was all gone. I'm not sure why…it just was. She felt the same and we decided it'd be best to remain friends and go our separate ways. And I think it was for the best that we did."

"Wow," Hermione said when he finished.

Harry, however, didn't at all look depressed for reliving his past romance with Ginny. In fact, he actually was smiling.

"You don't have to feel bad about it," he said. "I'm a lot happier now than I've been in a long time."

Resting her head on a closed first, she asked, "And why's that? Because of Quidditch?"

He laughed. "Well, that's definitely part of it."

"And what's the other part, exactly?"

Harry stared at her, and she at him, though Hermione was soon lost in his bright green eyes. They were so…ethereal to her, like an extraterrestrial affair. She imagined that if the Ministry ever had a department that focused on magic that existed beyond Earth's orbit, Harry's eyes would fall under heavy scrutiny. Quite frankly, she didn't even know if Harry, himself, knew how powerful his eyes were when he actually used them.

"Prospects," he finally said.

"That's a bit cryptic," Hermione replied.

"You're pretty intelligent," he nodded his head once at her. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

She didn't have to spare it a second thought. "Obviously you're on about winning the Quidditch World Cup." She then added, "It's likely to be on everyone's minds, actually."

"Good guess," he said.

"Oh please, don't you even try and tell me that I'm wrong," Hermione advised. "I know I'm right."

"A bit opinionated, are we?"

"I'm not," Hermione held up a finger like a politician making an important point during a speech, "and I'll tell you why."

"Please do," Harry grinned.

"This whole time in trying to get the Quidditch complex approved, I have yet to visit the current setup."

Harry grew rather serious at this and asked, "Do you really feel the need to?"

"It'd only be proper," Hermione answered. "The appeal's Monday morning and I think seeing how impractical it is to have two pitches for thirteen teams will help for the authorization. That, along with the gala to raise funds for the complex to be built."

"And this is coming from someone who doesn't like Quidditch and is afraid to fly?"

"Trust me, I'm not going over to have fun. I'm going over to work."

"I appreciate that," Harry said. He scratched behind his ear and proposed, "If you want, I can give you a brief tour and explain some things, like what's wrong with everything now and what the proposal for the complex will correct. You can even quote me if you want."

"I'd like that," Hermione said. "What time works best for you?"

Harry's gaze roamed to the right as he thought. "How about one in the afternoon tomorrow? Practice'll be over by then, and lunch too."

"That works," and Hermione made a mental note so as to not forget. "Is it usually busy on Sundays?"

"Yeah, but a lot of the time, teams tend to take off on Sundays unless they have an upcoming game."

"So it'll be empty then?" Hermione asked.

"I suppose," Harry said slowly. "Is is important that it is?"

"No, I'm just curious."

"You know," Harry took his ankle off his knee and shifted forward in his seat, "we could do dinner tomorrow night too. If you're not busy, that is."

"Dinner?" Hermione was flabbergasted and even more so when red exploded over his face. He ducked his head and stared down at his dinner plate. "I'm not one to always eat at night," she remarked in what she hoped was in an indifferent manner.

"Not as a date or anything," this slightly disappointed Hermione though she didn't tell him, "but just as colleagues. You could tell me about what you plan to say at the appeal and such. You don't have to if you don't want to," he finished and she saw him wince.

"Well," Hermione drew out, "I'll have to ask Benoît first but I can't imagine him saying no."

Harry looked up at her, and a bout of happiness dawned across his face like light from behind a screen that was being folded together. "You have to ask your cat, do you?"

"He demands that I do."

He then scoffed. "Not with words, I assume?"

Hermione waved her hand in the air as if trying to get rid of a flying bug. "Did you have a place in mind?"

"Diagon Alley," he answered. "There's a new restaurant there and I hear it's pretty cool."

"You've never been?"

"Not yet, but I'm hoping tomorrow will be my first time."

"Is it like a fancy place? Will I have to dress up?"

"I don't think so," he said. "But you can if you want to."

"I hope it's fun," Hermione replied. "And I don't believe I have any plans tomorrow night-,"

"Don't forget that you have to feed Benoît," Harry put in. He was trying to keep his face serious and was failing miserably.

"Yes," Hermione nodded, "that's very important. I can't have him starving now, can I?"

"And you can't starve yourself either," Harry tacked on. "So having dinner is completely necessary."

Hermione easily caught on to his game. "Of course it is, and what better company to have dinner with than Benoît."

"I feel like we had this conversation before," and he spun his finger around in small circles. This made Hermione think of dogs chasing each other's tails.

"And after we did have that conversation, I really did enjoy having dinner with you last Monday."

"My cooking's exceptional, I know," he said.

Hermione snorted. "There's room for improvement," and Harry smiled at her. "With that being said, I accept your invitation to have dinner tomorrow."

"A bit cordial, but I'll take it."

"Don't make me regret this," she said to him.

"I won't," Harry told her. "I'll make sure everything goes well even though it's not date."

"No," Hermione agreed, "not a date at all."

Harry rubbed a finger across his chin and smiled.

* * *

**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was actually fun to write, though a bit tricky too. Please leave a review and let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading.


	6. Little London

**Living for Living's Sake  
**

* * *

Chapter 6: Little London

* * *

"We're here," Harry said from beside her.

Hermione opened her eyes, having closed them when they Apparated, and sharply drew in a long breath: before her, atop a hill, stood two large Quidditch pitches with a long tent between them; she saw three hooped goalposts, all of varying heights, at both ends of the two fields; and surrounding each stadium was a large banner, both having the Union Jack printed on it.

"What d'you think?" he asked.

"Different than what I imagined," she said. She looked around and saw a brown horse grazing in the field nearby, while a lake slept in a valley of hills. "Where are we, exactly?"

"Exmoor," Harry answered. "Well, Haddon Hill to be more specific. Down there," he pointed at the water, "is Wimbleball Lake."

"It's beautiful," Hermione smiled, watching the horse. Its tail swished side to side.

"It is nice to look at," Harry agreed. "And by that, I mean the lake, not the horse."

"Have you dipped in that one, too?" She remembered Harry telling her at Ron's wedding yesterday that the lake behind the orchard at the Burrow was a good place to go swimming…when it was hot out, at least.

He grinned. "I haven't tried it yet but there's a first time for everything, isn't there?"

"Sure, but it's not that hot out today." And it wasn't: blue skies stretched above them, rendering cloud cover to be rather scarce. There was also an unexpected chill the wind carried, though not a complete oddity for the summertime.

"Warming Charms are easy to cast," he shrugged.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "A bit hopeless, aren't you?" When he laughed, she instructed, "A tour, if you please?"

"Trying to get to dinner so soon?"

"Having just ate, not really. I actually plan to take some notes and put them together before tonight." Waving her wand, a quill and parchment flew out of her beaded bag and hovered in the air behind her. "That way, all I have to do is read everything before bed, and review it tomorrow morning. That should be enough for the appeal."

"What time is that at anyway?" Harry asked, leading her forward.

Parts of the grass were rather high on Haddon Hill so that it crowded their knees.

"Mr Bagman and I have to meet the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic at nine in his office," Hermione said. "It shouldn't take more than an hour at most."

"You'll let me know how it goes, won't you?" Harry looked over at her curiously.

"As soon as we have an answer," Hermione nodded. "I mean, there really is no way the revision will be denied. Have you seen the odds England has over Bulgaria going into the finals?"

"Yeah, but the _Prophet _is a bit biased," Harry put in. "Even though Bulgaria lost the last Quidditch World Cup, to consecutively place in the finals is rare. And Viktor Krum, he's the Seeker, is on a mad streak to win the World Cup before he dies."

"Is he really that good?" Hermione asked. "Many Quidditch fans fawn over him, but Bulgaria lost to Ireland in 1994, and then to Egypt in 2002."

"Don't forget that even though Bulgaria lost to Ireland, Krum was the one to catch the Snitch. And he almost did it against Egypt, too," Harry pointed out.

"Why did he catch the Snitch against Ireland? Didn't that cost Bulgaria the game?"

"Krum caught it because Ireland's Seeker, Aidan Lynch, was about to catch it anyway. If he did, then Bulgaria would've lost by over three hundred points. Instead, they only lost by ten."

They stopped just outside the tent connecting the two Quidditch pitches and faced each other.

"So do you think Bulgaria has a chance of winning?"

Harry fidgeted with the zipper of his blue track jacket, frowning. "I guess they have as good a chance of winning as England. It'll probably be close."

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw the horse trod down Haddon Hill. "Do you remember what I said about the gala being approved?"

"England has to win," Harry said at once.

Hermione nodded. "Even though the Senior Undersecretary doesn't know about the gala yet, when Mr Bagman and I tell him about it, he'll probably put that condition on whether or not to endorse the gala even taking place. Plus, that's not accounting for inviting witches and wizards to fund the Quidditch complex, and honestly, who'd want to come if England loses?"

Harry stuffed his hands in the pockets of his black joggers and looked at the ground. Hermione felt the uncanny need to reach out to him then, not for intimate purposes but support instead. She knew Harry had a lot riding on the Quidditch World Cup because even though it was just a game to many, it was a lifestyle for many more.

"Listen," she said, and actually took the plunge and reached for his arm. He at first tensed, and Hermione thought about pulling away, but before she could, he relaxed and took his hand out of his pocket and latched on to hers. "I know this is a lot and you probably just want to play Quidditch because that's what you like to do, but winning or losing is going to have some type of consequence."

"You think it's possible the Senior Undersecretary is going to bypass the idea that England has to win in order for the gala to take place?" he asked. There was hope that orbed his eyes and Hermione hated that she had to be the one to puncture it.

"There's a chance, yes, but it's probably really small. If I thought of it, then the Senior Undersecretary will definitely think of it."

Harry smiled, though Hermione noticed it didn't reach his eyes, and said, "I miss the time when I thought Quidditch was just a game."

"Technically, it still is," Hermione said. "But now, everything's more involved, and everyone too.

"Yeah, people from the Ministry all the way down to secretaries who don't even enjoy it," Harry quipped, nodding his head over at her.

"I already told you that while I may not like Quidditch, that doesn't mean I'm completely oblivious to it!"

"I know," Harry said, pulling her forward towards the tent. "It's just that part of me thinks that deep down, you actually do like Quidditch but for whatever reason don't want to admit it."

"Trust me," Hermione said, "I don't like it."

Harry shrugged and she could tell by the look on his face that he didn't believe her at all. However, he decided to drop the notion for now and led her inside the tent.  
Though having never used one before, Hermione knew quite a bit about charmed tents, having read about them at Beauxbatons. Thus, she was surprised to find the inside of this one to be rather plain and very akin to what Muggles would use to go camping, just being a bit bigger than normal. The floor was made up of no less than a dozen oriental rugs randomly sewn together. The result was horrid and looked as if several horses happened to wander inside and became sick. On top of that, oval paintings hung on the walls, each detained in an ugly murky green trim. Though she was no interior designer, Hermione thought the tent needed an update, and badly. Perhaps she could use this as a selling point for the endorsement of the gala, and consequently, the construction of the Quidditch complex.

"You know, I hate to say it but I was expecting a bit more," Hermione said, noting that there wasn't any furniture around. In fact, there wasn't much of anything around. "And this is definitely small for thirteen teams. Of course, I understand that not every team is here all the time, but still."

Harry laughed at her. "You don't seriously think there isn't more here? Have you looked at the walls?" He pointed his thumb over his shoulder.

"The paintings?" Hermione asked. "What do they have to do with anything?"

"Don't tell me you've gone a bit dull," Harry said, making Hermione stamp her foot on the ground in frustration. "I thought you were bright and all."

"You know, I can still cancel dinner on you tonight," Hermione threatened. She expected Harry's smile to falter but it didn't. Instead, it only grew wider.

"I don't think you would."

"Really? Why's that?"

"Just a hunch," he shrugged. He then led her over to a painting of a female Quidditch player leaning against one of the hooped goalposts on a Quidditch pitch, her broom discarded on the ground. She held a Quaffle in one of her over-large hands (looking as if they were man-hands instead), and was punching it with the closed fist of her other hand. Hermione thought the player looked like she was pummeling out a bad relationship. Her brown hair was in a ponytail, it wafting in the breeze, and her blue eyes were piercing as she stared over at Hermione, deciding to take a break from the Quaffle beating. "Know who this is?" Harry asked with a pointed finger.

"No," Hermione shook her head. This was apparently the wrong thing to say as the female Quidditch player in the painting chucked the Quaffle directly at Hermione's head. Though she subconsciously knew the Quaffle wasn't able to hit her, she still jumped back, and nearly tripped over her own feet, her hand ripping out of Harry's in the process. She heard someone snicker at her antics but wasn't able to tell if it was Harry, the painting, or both.

"This is Joscelind Wadcock," he said, giving the Quidditch player an exasperated look. "She's got a bit of a temper at times."

"A bit?" Hermione repeated incredulously. "Is her temper what managed to get a painting of her on the wall?"

"No, actually. She was a Chaser for Puddlemere United, and holds the record for the most goals scored in the British and Irish Quidditch League in the twentieth century," he explained. "It was a match against the Ballycastle Bats that it happened, back in '31."

"How impressive," Hermione said though she didn't think it was in the slightest. She might've though, if Joscelind Wadcock hadn't thrown a Quaffle at her head.

Harry, seemingly catching her irony (an ability he had lacked before), told her, "You know, it's a good thing you aren't on the Puddlemere United team. If you were, you'd never be allowed in."

"In?" Hermione asked. "In where, exactly?"

He waved her forward, and Hermione came closer though she noticed that Joscelind Wadcock eyed her with a clear dislike. "Behind her are the quarters for the Puddlemere United team. All you have to do is say the password and you'll be granted access."

"That's it?" Hermione said. "A password is all it takes?"

"You thought it'd be more challenging?"

"Well, what if someone from another team guesses the password correctly?"

"Then, they'll be allowed in," Harry said simply. "But it's not something we worry about too much."

"Why?"

"Because no one really keeps anything valuable in here. And if someone does, they protect it with all sorts of charms and spells."

Hermione looked around and counted twelve other paintings on the wall. "Each team has their own quarters then, I assume?" she asked.

Harry nodded. "Did you want to have a quick look inside?"

"Of course."

Leaning forward, Harry said to the painting, "Timothy Blenkinsop's rat tail." Hermione heard a lock click and the painting swung open. Harry guided Hermione through the portrait hole, taking down several stone steps into a long hallway. The ground here had switched back to grass, thankfully doing away with the ugly oriental rugs, while in between the windows on the walls, the logo for Puddlemere United glowed in navy blue and sunshine gold.

"Care to explain Timothy Blenkinsop's rat tail?" Hermione asked.

Harry grinned over at her and replied, "I'll tell you some other time."

"Hopefully that's tonight at dinner, because I would love to hear about rodents while I'm eating," she said sarcastically.

Passing through a flap at the end of the passageway, Harry and Hermione entered into a large space: its middle was populated by tall lockers bunched together haphazardly; one side had individual changing stalls, veiled by thick curtains; and the opposite side was a large chalkboard that was riddled with _O_'s and _X_'s, along with arrows pointing in every direction possible.

"So first we have the changing room," Harry said as if the lockers weren't a dead giveaway themselves. Hermione thought that he probably assumed she was rather dull in the head. She soured at this. "And after," he continued, leading her beyond another flap, "is the kitchens on the right, and the showers on the left." They stood at the intersection of two long hallways. "Kinda self-explanatory, really."

"Do your teammates usually have a bite to eat in the kitchens?"

Harry thought for a moment and then said, "Something quick right after practice," he nodded. "But no one really sits down for a full meal."

"Is the kitchen prepared to handle one?"

"What? A full meal?" He arched a brow at her. "Yeah, I guess so." He crossed his arms over his chest. "It's just that all of us can Apparate back home and eat there. There's not much of a reason to stick around unless you want to." He beckoned her to follow him with a wave of his hand. "See for yourself."

At the end of the passageway, Hermione peeked into the kitchens. She saw all the necessary tools one needed to cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner, along with a long wooden table, chipped in a dozen places, players could sit at if they so wanted. A window above the sink provided a perfect view of Wimbleball Lake down below.

"The showers, then?" Harry asked after he saw Hermione's quill jot notes down on her scroll of parchment. Hermione gestured for him to lead the way and they walked back across the intersection silently.

In all honesty, Hermione was surprised at how large the quarters were for the Puddlemere United team, something she had not expected, and supposed it was identical to that of the others. Sure, having two pitches for thirteen teams still wasn't convenient for anyone involved, but the accommodations were hardly lacking. She thought it'd be more than manageable to have the same arrangements in the Quidditch complex.

"There's a guy's and girl's area for the showers," Harry said, indicating the two separate doors they faced, "and neither is allowed in the other. So you're going to have to go in alone."

"Well then, I guess it's a good thing I'm more than capable of going by myself," Hermione commented. She didn't miss Harry's smile.

"Also, just so you know, right inside is a charm that makes sure the correct person is using the proper loo. All you have to do is pass through it."

Hermione nodded in understanding and opened the door. She immediately saw what Harry was talking about for a silvery curtain framed a second entryway. Without hesitating, she walked through it, it like a cool mist on her skin, and saw the washroom: shower stalls lined one wall separated by screen partitions; oval mirrors, caked in grime, were glued to the opposite wall and hung above pedestal-like sinks; and Hermione supposed the closed doorways imbedded in another wall led to individual toilets. She took a look in one just to be sure and it turned out that she was right.

"Everything in order?" Harry asked when Hermione exited the loo.

"Appears to be," she nodded. "Unless there's more?"

He nodded. "One more thing, actually."

She followed him beyond another flap, and when she saw what was inside, her eyes went wide: a large, round hot tub, encased in a charcoal grey barrier, sat in front of a colossal window of Exmoor. The walls were covered in blue and gold banners, and the ceiling too, though a diamond chandelier hung from it. However, what was most unusual about the hot tub, specifically, was that a large water feature, it in the shape of a Quidditch player who had his broomstick over his shoulders, stood in the middle of it.

"That's our team captain, Oliver Wood," Harry said pointing to the statue.

As Hermione felt the water with her hand, finding it to be warm, she asked, "You're not the captain?"

Harry laughed. "I guess you thought I was?"

"More like assumed." She looked up at Oliver Wood and then asked, "Is he permanent?"

Shaking his head, Harry said, "The statue's charmed to change into whoever Puddlemere United's captain is at the moment. When Wood's replaced, it'll change into whoever takes over."

"I take it this is supposed to be flattering?"

"Tradition is how I'd put it," Harry corrected.

"And would you say this room is used frequently?"

"Probably the most out of the entire area," he confirmed. "It's a good way to end the day."

"I can imagine," Hermione nodded, thinking of how she'd like nothing more than to sit in the hot tub right then and there while enjoying the peaceful scenery of Exmoor. A plus would have Harry in with her, his swimming trunks covering his-

"If it's possible," Harry interrupted, "it'd most likely be for the best if you could include a space for a hot tub in the Quidditch complex. I'd have a hard time believing the Senior Undersecretary would have a problem with that."

"He only would for the fact that he would want one for himself," Hermione returned. "But I'm sure anyone at the Ministry could do with a good soak in a hot tub after a long day of work."

"Well, you're free to use ours any time you want," Harry offered. He looked at the ground as he said this, his shoes skimming the grass. "You know the password to get in."

Hermione couldn't help but think that Harry looked like a shy boy asking his mum if he could have a chocolate chip cookie before dinner. She found this to be strange as she couldn't remember any time before where he had been timid with her. However, instead of being revolted, she considered this nature of his to be rather attractive.

"That's…very thoughtful of you," she smiled. "But I think I'll pass."

Harry looked back up at her and nodded his head.

* * *

Dark purple clouds ripped across the sky, a small fleet swimming in the vast, pink ocean of sunset. Birds, caped in black, were like fish in the water, navigating a deep sea. And the first sign of stars began to peek out, though soon it would be an entire shipwreck of them that colonized the sky above.

_Little London_ is what her dad use to call star constellations when Hermione was little, along with stories of how only the best of people were able to make it up there. He told her this each night when he was tucking her in for bed. He also instructed that if she were to ever have a nightmare, to think of Little London where there were simply no nightmares that existed. This was, however, when the fascination of London dimmed for Hermione, she no longer finding it a city she wanted to stay in. She didn't really know what it was that made her turn on her home city. It was probably a multitude of different factors, actually, each one to blame as the one that came after. Suffocation was the most probable, London being home to just too many people. It was both exhausting and overwhelming. And thus, Little London was a place she preferred to stay far, far away from.

And these feelings were still prevalent in her as an adult, perhaps even more so than before. Yet, it was in London where Hermione was the night before the appeal of the Quidditch complex, waiting for Harry in front of Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley. (_We've both been there before so it'll be easy to just meet in front of the place_, was his reasoning, and the fact that Hermione had no idea where this restaurant they were supposed to dining at was located.)

Stragglers were getting some last minute shopping done, though she noticed there was a large presence of young people. Most of them were snogging, clearly unable to control their raging hormones, much to the disdain of parents who happened to be with their children. She also saw a member of the sheep herd with Harry Potter Quidditch posters, the one whose breasts jiggled like jell-o. She was with a man who looked much older than herself and Hermione reckoned they could be a father-daughter duo. That was until they brought their lips together. She looked away when they did this, not to give them privacy, but because she found it to be quite nauseating.

"Haven't been waiting long, have you?"

Turning around, Hermione saw Harry walking towards her. He was wearing a maroon polo T-shirt with a collar and a pair of blue jeans. His hair was messy as usual, and she wondered whether he even bothered to do anything to it. She would've suggested a jar of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion if she didn't like his hair as much as she did. As such, Sleekeazy's Hair Potion would remain a taboo topic between them. In addition, he also seemed to have done away with the shyness he had donned before back when he proposed that Hermione could use the hot tub in Puddlemere United's quarters whenever she wanted. Hermione was confused by this, and wondered what was the difference between then and now.

"Not really, but isn't it proper for the man to show up first?"

"Proper in what way, exactly? Don't you remember that this isn't a date?"

"Well, yes, though technically-,"

"Then there you go," he cut across.

Hermione pursed her lips at him.

"Are you hungry?" he asked as they made their way across the lane. He didn't seem to notice the girl whose breasts jiggled like jell-o. Though as they passed her and her kissing partner, Hermione saw that the girl's eyes went wide like bug eyes. The older man smiled against her mouth at this.

"I could do with something small," she said.

"And Benoît?"

"He's been fed."

"Good, because we can't be worrying about him at dinner," Harry said.

"He's a cat," Hermione insisted. "He mainly takes care of himself."

"And do you like that he's so independent?"

Hermione thought about this for a moment and then answered, "It takes a bit of the burden off me, especially being that during the week, I leave early for work and come home pretty late."

"A dog wouldn't do any good then?"

"Please," she scoffed, "who in their right mind would want an unintelligent animal like a dog as a pet?"

Harry looked over at her. "I was thinking of getting one."

"The blind leading the blind, then."

Harry snorted but made no reply. Instead, he and Hermione took down a very narrow alleyway. A small village of wrought-iron lanterns was glued onto red brick walls on either side of them, highlighting a trilogy of adverts. One of them read: _Need an elf? Tabby is here to help! _Another said:_ Raven's Resplendent Riches Coming Soon! _And a third promoted the release of an upcoming book: _Harry's Heaven or Hell: The Untold Truth of the Famed Wizard's Preference of Isolation by Rita Skeeter_. This last one made Hermione grab Harry's arm and point it out to him.

He shook his head and said, "This is the fourth volume she's done on me."

"Fourth?" Hermione wasn't sure if she heard him right.

"I think the whole series is supposed to be made of seven or eight books. They'll all be rubbish though, just like the ones that've already been published."

"Who's this Skeeter woman?" Hermione asked. "A famous author?"

"Famous, yes. Author," he seesawed his head side to side, "not much of one. She mainly makes up things as she goes along. She started out as a contributor to the _Daily Prophet_ but has since expanded to writing about famous people." Pocketing his hands, he added, "She did one on Dumbledore, you know."

"Did you read it?"

"Parts," he shrugged. "But I wasn't much of a fan."

"Maybe she'll redeem herself with this book, then."

Harry laughed. "Believe me, she won't."

"And you're completely sure of that?"

"You'll probably meet her sooner or later, and when you do, you'll know what I mean."

At the end of the alley, Harry and Hermione took up half a dozen stone steps and turned a corner. They entered into a wide-open area in which several stores were jumbled together, and a lamppost stood across from them. However, what caught Hermione's attention were two large trees that stood past the stores, some of their branches having been plaited together, that shrouded what lay past them. She also saw several pairs of orange and yellow eyes staring back at her. There might've been brown and black ones, too.

"What's behind those trees over there?" she pointed.

Harry looked and swallowed. "Paw's Pen," he said. "It's a brothel."

"A brothel in Diagon Alley?"

"Well, actually, this is a part of Knockturn Alley. See the pathway there?" He nodded his head over at a skeletal lane that cut around the front trees of Paw's Pen. "Taking that will lead you back there."

"And what is it about Knockturn Alley that makes it seem like you don't like it?"

"It's a place that specializes in the Dark Arts," he answered with a scowl. "I avoid it as much as I can."

"Except for dinner, that is."

"From what I've heard, Owl Night is worth it."

"Owl Night?" Hermione asked. "We're not eating at The Raven Café?" It sat among the mess of stores in this part of Knocturn Alley, and where Hermione thought Harry was taking her.

"No, definitely not there," he said and winced. "It's over by the lamppost."

Hermione glanced the lamppost's way but didn't see any restaurant by it. In fact, there wasn't anything by it at all.

"There's nothing there."

"Look at the ground," he instructed.

When she did, she saw a puddle of water. Though Hermione wasn't particularly street smart (_Books not looks!_), she wasn't a simpleton either. That's why she was rather amazed that an actual restaurant was inside the puddle of water. She was therefore impressed by the magic of Owl Night's location, but one thing about it bothered her.

"How are we going to get in?"

Harry smiled and said, "We jump."

Hermione felt her brows shoot into her hairline. "Jump in?" she repeated incredulously, and looked back at the puddle of water. "Aren't we going to get wet?" Though Hermione didn't doll up into anything extravagant, she didn't exactly fancy having to be soaked through to simply enter a restaurant for a bite of dinner.

"Dunno," he shrugged. "I guess there's only one way to find out, isn't there?" And without waiting another second, Harry grabbed Hermione's hand, walked over, and together, they jumped into the puddle of water.

* * *

**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please leave a review and let me know what you thought of it. Thanks for reading.


	7. Owl Night

**Living for Living's Sake**

* * *

Chapter 7: Owl Night

* * *

Water rushed behind Hermione's ears before she descended rapidly, her heart in her throat. She vaguely felt Harry beside her but instead of feeling grateful for his presence, she was instead cursing it for not giving her any fair warning of jumping into the puddle of water. She made to squeeze the life out of his hand in both fear and retaliation of making such a rash decision of eating at such an awful place. However, mere seconds later, Hermione's feet landed on a hard surface and she fell down atop it.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked from somewhere over her. In all honesty, she was feeling quite disoriented. She felt Harry pulling her to her feet and she grabbed onto his arm to have her vision right itself again. She opened her eyes to get her bearings about her but unfortunately, she saw three Harrys. Thinking she may have entered into a most horrid nightmare, she squeezed her eyelids shut and counted to ten. When she was feeling a bit steadier, she pushed him away. "I guess you are, then?"

"I didn't expect such an entrance," she said coldly, brushing herself off, noticing that she was dry but deciding not to comment on it. "This very well may be the last time I come with you anywhere."

"If it means anything," he said, rubbing his right shoulder, "Wood only told me how to get in and some other things, but not much else."

Hermione glared over at him and became even more annoyed when he had the audacity to look innocent and apologetic. Oh, how she would love to push him into the water behind him right then and there. Yet, that was when she noticed Owl Night's décor: a black lake was how she'd describe it, but with tiny islands in it like planets in a solar system. Tables for two were on the islands themselves, complete with green grass, a rainbow of flowers, and brown cattails. Each island was situated far enough from one another that cross conversations between guests were impossible. In fact, the islands had a lot of room to work with because it even looked as if Owl Night had no walls for black bled away into the darkness. And while glow worms could be seen on each island, their green lights like tiny emeralds in the grass, above, Little London was like a cathedral in the sky.

Shocked though pleasantly surprised, Hermione found the setting to be rather intimate but she liked it, a lot actually. It was something she didn't expect, especially when its entryway was a small puddle of water. On the outside, nothing gave off a sense of allure the restaurant hid inside itself and Hermione thought people who happened upon the puddle of water would simply think it to be just that and walk right on by.

"We can go if you want, but I'm not entirely sure if going out is the same as coming in-,"

"Let's stay," Hermione suggested, interrupting him. She turned around and said, "It's beautiful in here."

"You think so?"

She nodded. "The entrance could do with a bit of fixing but we should try it out." Hermione saw that they were standing on a dock made of thin wooden planks, the water of the lake hugging its edge. "Do you know how we're supposed to get a table?"

"Over here," Harry said, and he walked over to a tree that held a corner under its cartel. "Wood said all we have to do is knock on the tree here, and wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Dunno," he said and rapped his knuckles against the bark. A second later, a thin branch carrying a small owl slid down from the shadows. Hermione saw that the owl itself had bright blue eyes, unlike those outside of Paw's Pen. "Er," Harry started and looked at Hermione for help.

She walked forward and said, "Um, do you have a table for two?"

In response, the owl suddenly stilled, making Hermione look around to see if anyone had hit it with a Freezing Charm, and thinned into a pendant. It then fell off its perch and acting quickly, Harry managed to catch it. The pendant then began to throttle soundlessly and Harry just had time to say, "You might want to grab on," and Hermione did before she felt as if she had been hooked around the navel and pulled forward. Her feet left the dock as her ears were deafened by a howling wind. A second later, Hermione was thrown, rather viciously, into a chair at a table on one of the small islands, and she briefly caught Harry having the same done to him, though he had to catch the edge of the table from tipping backwards into the water.

"That's how they show you to your seats?" Hermione remarked bitterly. "They should provide a sick bag somewhere in this place."

A flame erupted atop a candle between them as two menus popped into their hands. Hermione was taken aback at the rapidity of this but gathered it was more practical than that of entering into the restaurant and being shown to their dinner table.

"A bit unusual, isn't it?" Harry asked.

"More than that," Hermione scoffed. She looked around and saw that about half the islands were occupied, with a couple nearby looking as if they were trying to suck each other's faces off. Disgusted, she turned back around and saw Harry staring over at her. "What?"

"Do you know what you want?" and gestured down at the menu.

"In a hurry, are we?"

"Kinda," he said. "It's no secret that I'm hungry."

"Then order first," she waved her hand at him.

"Wouldn't you say it's improper for me to order without you?" He hilled a brow at her.

"Well, you were the one that said this isn't a date," she replied, scanning the menu.

"Did you want it to be?"

Hermione paused when he asked this, trying her best to keep her eyes on the menu but failing to do so. The foolish part of her mind, one that had grown considerably bigger ever since she had met Harry, told her that her eyes windowed the truth and that if he looked closely enough, he'd be able to read it. She didn't particularly want that because she wasn't interested in being part of any type relationship right now. And a date, she presumed, was the first step for it to become a reality.

Yet, there was a part of her, somewhere deep, deep down, that was excited at the prospect of Harry being somewhat interested in dating her. Because why else would he ask such a thing if he wasn't, right? Or maybe it was the other way around in that somewhere deep, deep down, she was excited at the prospect of dating him. If not, then why was she so bothered by the girl with the jell-o like breasts she had seen in Diagon Alley? Why was she so jealous of the slapper Ginny claimed Harry had slept with a couple of times? And why was she so disappointed that when Harry initially invited her to have dinner with him, he ruled out the possibility that it was going to be a date? Because it was Harry that made that distinction, not her.

With her option being severely limited in order to keep from giving her position away, Hermione decided on, "Did you?" When he didn't say anything, she added, "Because at Ron's wedding, you said that this wasn't going to be a date between us."

He shrugged. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"I thought I did-,"

"But you changed your mind?" he interrupted.

"I'm not sure," she said, and lightly shook her head. And she really wasn't anymore. "I mean, with the Quidditch World Cup being so close, are you really looking for anyone to date right now?"

"If it comes up, then sure."

"So you are, then?"

"I never said that."

"So you're not?"

"I never said that either."

Irritated, Hermione just managed to keep from slamming her first on the tabletop lest she rattle the candle from its holder and set the entire restaurant aflame. Though, by the way her conversation with Harry was going, maybe it wasn't such a bad idea at all. It would only be by her luck that if the candle did tip over, there was an entire lake of water ready to douse the fire.

"Let's just order our food," she said hastily. "Didn't you say you were hungry?" And without waiting, she asked, "Where's the waiter?"

"Er, I don't think there is one," Harry said.

"What? That's outrageous! How're we supposed to order?"

"I think I have an idea," he told her. And looking at his plate, he said clearly, "Steak and kidney pudding with butterbeer." And not even a second later, steak and kidney pudding and a bottle of butterbeer appeared before him. "Try it," he urged her.

Flabbergasted by Owl Night's ordering method, Hermione looked down her menu and said skeptically, "Vegetable stew with a glass of water?" And like Harry, a plate of vegetable stew, steam like a heavy column over it, and glass of water materialized before her.

As they began to eat, Hermione asked, "How did you know to do that? Did Oliver tell you?"

"No, actually," and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "It was how we ordered our food at the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament."

"And you just happened to remember that now?"

"It was useful, wasn't it?"

She couldn't fault him there, and a big plus was that even though she believed she wasn't all that hungry, she really was, and her vegetable stew was divine…almost other-worldly. She hadn't tasted anything this good since she had left France, because while England was her home, she enjoyed French cuisine a lot more. She then had a stray thought about Fleur and wondered how she was coping with English food or if she happened to cook French dishes instead (in which case Ginny's oldest brother, Bill, was most certainly a lucky man).

However, as good as her dinner was, she couldn't help feel that her conversation with Harry about dating was far from over. It was almost like a grey cloud hung over her, and she was simply waiting for the rain to come. Or perhaps, she was to be the one to cue the rain. And no matter when it fell, she was going to get wet, Harry was going to get wet, or they both were going to get wet.

She peeked over at him across the table and saw that he had located the couple close by that were sucking each other's faces off, their food left untouched. Hermione thought it had long grown cold. She did notice that Harry didn't at all seem impressed by their display of outward affection that was bordering on actions and noises that were typically reserved for behind closed doors. The couple did make Hermione wonder if the slapper Harry had slept with had made noises similar to those the girl was currently making and if Harry had found such sounds a major turn-on. She was about to find out.

"Besides Ginny, have you dated around a lot?" she asked. She now didn't care if she got wet, and she couldn't really blame anyone but herself being that she had cued the rain.

Seeming as if he was taken off guard, Harry put down his fork and knife and wiped his mouth with a napkin again. She thought he did this to give himself a moment to think as she hadn't seen any crumbs.

"Not really," he said.

"Can you give a number?"

His eyes roamed upwards and his mouth moved noiselessly before he answered, "Besides Ginny, two. With Ginny, three."

"Did you almost get one of them pregnant?" Hermione blurted out. She hadn't meant to be so blunt but the question clearly had tried its best to leave her, and it won. But she felt rather embarrassed afterwards and almost wished she could take it back…almost.

Clearly surprised, Harry asked, "Where's this coming from?"

She sighed loudly. "Remember when I told you Ginny and I talked the day of Ron's wedding?" When he nodded, she continued, "Well, she kind of let it slip that there was this _Witch Weekly _article where some slap – uh, I mean, witch – claimed that you fathered a child with her and that that edition was a best-seller." A butterfly flew over their table in between them. "She said it wasn't true what the girl said but I was a bit," she paused here, trying to find the right word to use, "interested in the matter."

"Interested, huh?" He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Her attention was momentarily diverted to his biceps before she mentally shook her head and focused back on him.

"Were you together with her once?"

He nodded. "She was the second person I dated after Ginny, when I started my first season with Puddlemere United, actually. But we didn't last very long."

"Really?" This was news to her, especially since Ginny had told her that Harry admitted he had slept with the slapper (_witch_) a couple of times. "What happened?"

"She wanted to get pregnant and for me to be the dad," he rolled his eyes. "I wasn't even twenty at the time which is way too young, for me at least, to be starting a family."

"Do you want a family?"

"Eventually," he confirmed. "But I'm not in any hurry, really. And I have to find the right person to settle down with."

"How long did you last with her?"

He drummed his fingers across his chin and said, "Like two weeks or so."

"That's it?"

"She was in a hurry," he shrugged.

"And you weren't?"

"Definitely not."

She wagered on whether or not she should ask how many times Harry and this girl had slept together to see if Ginny was right or if she was having her on. She didn't think this was an invasion of privacy because it wasn't like she was asking for details, just a simple number.

"Did you, um…did you sleep with her?"

"Yeah," he said.

"A lot?"

"Only once," he replied. "And it was really bad too."

"In what way?"

"Like I already told you, I found out in the middle of it that she was looking to get pregnant. I didn't really want to finish but-,"

"Please, don't say anymore," Hermione cut across, holding up a hand. This made him grin widely. "Ginny said you slept with her a lot though."

"She gave many interviews to anyone who'd ask after I broke up with her," Harry began. "The girl I was with, not Ginny," he clarified. "The _Prophet _and _Witch Weekly_, specifically, and they tend to exaggerate everything they write about."

"But why would Ginny believe that?" Hermione asked. "She doesn't seem like someone who'd buy into their stories."

"Dunno," he said.

Hermione made a mental note to ask Ginny this the next time she saw her. Because even though it wasn't of great importance, she was simply curious.

"How about the other girl you dated?"

"Nothing but a fan," he answered, shaking his head as if tripping over a bad memory. "Didn't last more than a couple of days."

"So two short-lived relationships and one that lasted for a bit longer?"

"I'd say all three were pretty short," Harry countered. "Ginny and I dated for a couple of months before we broke up, and then for like a couple of weeks after the war. It wasn't much to write home about."

"At least you had one good relationship," Hermione said.

"You haven't?" Harry asked.

She should've suspected the topic of discussion would soon change course with Harry crafting the waves and Hermione having to maneuver them. However, her resume of past romances wasn't as long as Harry's, not that it mattered or anything. In fact, her relationship story was rather boring if she did say so herself. "There was someone I dated back at Beauxbatons my seventh year," she said. "But it didn't turn into anything after."

"Did something happen?"

"Not really," she said. "After school, he got a job at the Ministère des Affairs Magiques de la France and I came back to England some time later."

"You two didn't believe in long-distance relationships?"

"Well, he did, but I didn't." She leaned back in her chair and stared at the candle between them. She saw a skinny waterfall of wax parachute down the side. "He was willing to try it out and all when I wanted a fresh start."

"Any reason?" Harry resumed eating the rest of his dinner.

"Not any good ones," Hermione returned.

"What was one of 'em, then?"

She remembered that she had made a pro and con list of reasons she should either ax the relationship or keep it going. After taking a quick inventory of why she should do away with it, because she did remember everything she had written down, she said, "I just couldn't imagine marrying him. He wasn't bad or anything and was really smart, but my feelings for him…went away after a while."

"While you were still at school?"

She nodded. "I didn't realize it until we were out of school. And by then, I was more settling than anything, and that wasn't fair to him."

"It also wasn't fair to you," Harry said.

"I guess not," and gave him a small smile.

A commotion at the table nearby, the one where the couple was trying to suck each other's faces off, diverted their attention, and that of everyone else in the restaurant.

"How dare you call me by your wife's name! I am your mistress!" the woman screamed, standing to her feet and pounding her chest like a gorilla. "You've been seeing me for over a year now and still cannot get my name correct, you one-eyed troll? Be gone with you!" And she reached over the table and pushed him into the water, his chair joining him. She then took the owl pendant, disappeared from the island, and reappeared back on the dock.

"Sheila!" the man called as he began to swim towards her.

"Ugh, what a pig," Hermione said as she watched him in the water. If the man got a stitch in his side, she supposed she wouldn't be in any hurry to save him. After all, her dinner was growing cold. She saw the candlelight at their table go out, and a cloud of smoke coughed from its tip. "I saw a lot of that in France, actually."

"What? People cheating on their spouses?"

Hermione nodded. "It's quite common over there."

"Is that why you couldn't see yourself marrying that guy you dated at Beauxbatons?"

"That was different," she said.

"So then why did you leave France? And what a time you decided to go, too, with the Quidditch World Cup being held in the Dordogne Valley."

"Wasn't my department," she told him. "I worked in the Bureau des Créatures Magiques et de leur Gouvernance, similar to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry."

Harry's brows pulled together as he asked, "So why not do a lateral transfer? I mean, you completely changed departments."

"I wanted something different," Hermione said. "And honestly, my work back in the Bureau des Créatures Magiques et de leur Gouvernance wasn't all that interesting. I mean, right before I left, someone was murdered in the Pays de Caux Dragon Sanctuary, and several dragon eggs were stolen, but that investigation was taken on by the Bureau des Aurors."

"Someone was murdered?" Harry asked.

"Yes, but I don't think it was ever resolved," Hermione said, thinking. She actually hadn't thought of the murder in a long time and wondered what came of it, if anything, since she left.

"And on top of that, it took place at a dragon sanctuary?" When she nodded, he continued, "Is it like the one in Romania where Charlie works at?"

"Other than the dragon sanctuary in France being smaller than Romania's, it's pretty much the same." Hermione fingered the bracelet on her wrist, the same she had worn to Ron and Lavender's wedding. "Work in the Bureau des Créatures Magiques et de leur Gouvernance was a bit dry and I wanted something that was more appealing."

"And being Ludo's secretary is?"

"Like I said, it's different from what I did before so that counts for something. Also, I'm pretty sure I already told you that I like the work I do now. Remember? That was when we first met."

He shrugged. "You could've been pulling my leg."

"Trust me," she scoffed, "I don't pull on anyone's leg."

"That was a figure of speech."

"Trying some new humor, are you?"

"You didn't like it before," he said.

"And I still don't," she confirmed.

He laughed and finished his last bite of dinner. Afterwards, he set down his silverware and asked, "Speaking of transferring in the middle of the Quidditch World Cup, are you going to go?"

"I didn't get any tickets," she said. "And the last I heard was that they were all sold out."

"I can get you some if you want," Harry offered.

Hermione paused and looked over at Harry to see that he was being completely serious.

"That's nice of you and all, but you know that Quidditch isn't really my thing," she said.

"Sure, but are you going to let that keep you from supporting England? You were born here, after all."

"I'm well aware of where I was born, thank you."

"Then I guess that means you're going!" he exclaimed happily.

"I beg your pardon, but please tell me when I said that exactly?"

"Listen, you can hash out your differences with Ginny at the game," he said, "because all of 'em are going."

"They all got tickets?"

"I gave 'em some," Harry replied.

"How many are you allowed to give out? A whole stadium-full?"

"Enough," he said.

"And hash out our differences?" Hermione repeated. "What does that mean?"

"About when she told you that I slept with that girl multiple times," he explained. "I'm kinda curious where she heard that from."

"Why don't you ask her yourself?"

"Because I know you're curious too."

"Hardly," and Hermione rolled her eyes. However, she wasn't being completely honest of the fact and she could tell Harry saw right through her. Then again, it shouldn't really matter what Harry did with the previous girls he dated, but for some reason Hermione couldn't understand, she wanted, and perhaps needed, to know. She assumed it was to put her mind at ease…well, that was until jealousy took hold of her and she had already been jealous of Harry's past relationship with the slapper (though this was mainly due through false information given to her by Ginny).

Thus, she concluded that it wasn't such a far stretch of the imagination that she did fancy Harry, but wouldn't tell him until she knew for sure he felt the same about her. Or else, she was bound to set herself up for disappointment, something she wished to avoid at all costs if possible. Sure, there were hints he gave, subtle ones actually, that made it hard to decipher if he really did have feelings for her or if he was participating in a flirtatious free-for-all instead. She reckoned she could simply ask him outright how he felt, but didn't want to seem too forward and desperate, as if her happiness depended on his answer, because it absolutely did not. Right? Bugger if she knew.

Hermione was giving herself a headache thinking about this and alternatively focused on finishing her food. She took two large spoonfuls, not really carrying how womanly she looked at the moment, and downed her glass of water.

"All finished?" Harry asked, and Hermione nodded. He then looked around and whispered over, "Do you think we pay in here?"

"Not sure," she replied, though no one seemed to stop the pig and Sheila the mistress when they abruptly left. And based on their dramatic exit, Hermione doubted either one took the time to leave any necessary money on the table. "I don't think there were any prices on the menu that I remember."

"That's because there wasn't any."

"Well, if that's the case, then I'm pretty sure we can just leave."

Frowning, Harry reached into his pocket and deposited a handful of Galleons in the middle of the table. They huddled the base of the candlestick.

"What's that for?" Hermione asked.

"I feel bad just leaving without paying," he said. "It doesn't feel right."

"But that seems like a generous amount."

"I had a good time," he shrugged. "Did you?"

As Hermione stood to her feet, she agreed, "Better than I thought it was going to be."

"That, and you ate a good amount for someone who usually doesn't take to dinner."

"I'm actually surprised I finished," Hermione said.

"You don't normally?"

"When I do eat, there's usually leftovers."

"Maybe I should come by your place for dinner sometimes. It's not like we live far away from each other or anything."

"I wouldn't," Hermione shook her head. "I'm still perfecting my cooking."

"I'll give you lessons then."

She snorted in a very mannish way and picked up the owl pendant and held it out for Harry to grab onto. When he did, it began to throttle and a second later, it pulled them both forward back onto the wooden dock. Hermione walked over to the tree and looked up for the swinging branch to come back down, guessing that was what she had to do for the pendant to turn back into a real owl. And she was right for when the branch did lower, the pendant in her hand morphed back in the small bird with blue eyes. Spreading its wings, it resumed its place on the branch and it lifted up into blackness. However, she was surprised when the bark of the tree then opened like a doorway would, and she saw that past it were stone stairs leading upwards.

"Don't tell me this is the exit?" she said.

"I thought you'd be happy," Harry commented, and led her forward.

"I am," she replied, "though it seems ridiculous they couldn't provide these same set of stairs for guests to enter into the restaurant. They really should do away with the puddle of water."

"That'd take away from the experience," Harry protested.

"Experience?" Hermione repeated sarcastically. "Please."

The stairs spiraled against a rough wall, it looking nothing like the inside of a tree, and was lit by flaming brackets. At the top, there was a skinny cutout of which they were to exit out of, it being so narrow that both Harry and Hermione had to turn sideways to make it through. When they did, Hermione saw that it was actually the lamppost they had been in. She marveled up at it in awe and wonder.

"Some place, isn't it?" Harry asked.

"Definitely," Hermione said to him. "Thanks for inviting me."

"You know," he began, staring down at his own feet, "if you want, we could do this again sometime, you and me."

"Are you sure about that?"

At this, Harry looked up at her. "Of course I am! I had fun too!"

"Even with all the questions about your previous girlfriends?"

He threw his hands in the air. "It was bound to come up sooner or later, wasn't it?"

"We talked so much about that, that I didn't even run the proposal for the Quidditch complex by you."

"Oh, right," and he rubbed his hand across his chest. "Did you want to do that now? We could stop by my place and have some coffee or tea."

Hermione hesitated, and considered taking him up on his offer, especially when she saw that a certain hopefulness had arrested his eyes. Truthfully, she wanted to go with him but wished to avoid the awkwardness that came with saying good-bye after having an intimate dinner, even if the dinner wasn't a date. And the awkwardness would surely grow the farther the night stretched on and spent in each other's company. She imagined it was better to do with the awkwardness now than dread it a couple of hours from now, and that was taking into consideration the fact that such trepidation could possibly ruin a near-perfect night. Or maybe she was over-thinking everything and blowing it out of proportion. Then again, she was still in the dark about Harry's feelings for her and her feelings for him. She wanted to sort it all out before potentially moving forward. It would only be proper, after all.

"I'm actually a bit tired," she said, and she actually was. "Besides, we both have early mornings tomorrow, don't we?"

"Yeah, right," he nodded and smiled, though Hermione could see that it was forced.

"I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow, okay?" she asked.

"I'll be waiting."

She nodded her head once at him and with a small wave, she Apparated away.

* * *

**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please feel free to leave a review and let me know what you thought. Thanks for reading.


	8. Crumbs

**Living for Living's Sake**

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Chapter 8: Crumbs

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Hermione was dizzy, and it was all Harry's fault that she was. Sure, it was nice of him to invite her over for some treacle tart he had supposedly made (though she doubted the authenticity of this in his letter to her, and still did, in fact), and it was also nice of him to add a postscript to make sure she fed Benoît so he didn't starve while she was out, but for him to answer the door without a shirt was just absurd. He was lucky she had declined to summon the Aurors out to Godric's Hollow to report a crime, because it was just outrageous of how good he looked!

Broad shoulders framed a lean body of muscle, with a chest that was like two fluffy pillows and an abdomen that was like part of a set of stairs. Bruises and cuts were like small forests across his body, separated by larger clearings of white skin. His black joggers, an apparent favorite of his, she supposed, hugged his hips snugly and reached down to a pair of black socks. Hermione tried to catch a glimpse of the band of his boxer shorts to see if it was of the oxford blue variety, but she was unable to see them. Well…she couldn't always get what she wanted, could she?

Of all the times she fantasized about him in his Puddlemere United robes and formal dress robes, she thought very little of him without any piece of clothing at all. She did daydream about him in just his swimming trunks at Ron's wedding, but even then she paid little attention to the upper half of his body that wasn't covered. Instead, she was only focused the lower part of his body that covered his-

"Hope you're hungry," he said to her with a smile.

She mentally scoffed as she stepped inside. Seriously, who would've even thought one could get such a body just by playing Quidditch? She supposed Harry could work out though he hadn't mentioned ever doing so.

"Do you think you could put on a shirt or something? A throw would even help."

Harry grinned a little (_Toe rag_, she thought crossly to herself) and said, "Never had anyone complain before." Nonetheless, he took a quick detour into the living area and reappeared a second later cocooned in a maroon blanket with a large gold lion on it. He huddled into it as if he was cold. "Better?"

_No_, she thought, but heard herself saying, "Much."

He led her into the kitchen where Hermione saw that two plates had already been set with a large helping of treacle tart on both.

"I'll get the tea going," he said, and waved his wand. "You look like you could use some."

"It's been a long day," she sighed, and stifled a yawn. She thought it'd be rude to let one out.

"Was worth it though, wasn't it?" His arms were folded over his chest with his wand tip pointing to somewhere above his left shoulder. "The gala was approved."

"With the condition of England winning the Quidditch World Cup," Hermione put in.

"That was expected," he shrugged.

"It was the best we could hope for," she agreed, and stared down at the treacle tart Harry had made. In all honesty, it looked quite inviting, as if it was silently begging Hermione to devour it all in one bite. And yes, because her parents were dentists, she didn't have a really big sweet tooth, but instead a small one. And from time to time, she felt the need to satisfy such cravings of her (_small_) sweet tooth. It also probably helped that she had eaten only a tiny dinner that night, purposefully leaving room for dessert. "Are you nervous at all for the game? It's two weeks away, isn't it?"

"A little," he answered, "but I find that it helps."

"In what way?"

"Well, if I wasn't nervous at all, I'd having nothing really to lose. But with the gala, and to a larger extent the Quidditch complex, dependent on if England wins, there's something to actually play for."

"So are you confident that you'll win?"

"It's still up in the air," he replied, frowning. "That's why Wood's been holding practices like he's mad. I mean, he'll probably need a whole ward to himself at St Mungo's after the Quidditch World Cup, and that's if England wins or loses."

"I'm sure you like it," Hermione said.

"'Course," he grinned a little, "but it's exhausting. We've been practicing all day."

"Why'd you invite me over, then? Surely your treacle tart could've waited?"

"I wanted to celebrate that the appeal sorta went through," he shrugged.

"The first of many hurdles before the Quidditch complex gets built," she thought to point out.

"It's a first step at least," he returned lightly. He then reached into his pocket and said, "There's also something I wanted to give you."

"Oh?" Hermione was curious. "What's that?"

He took out a blank envelope and handed it to her. She could nearly sense a storm of nervousness pillage his insides just as they had had when he told Hermione she could use Puddlemere United's hot tub. "Open it."

She did so with a small smile she couldn't quite keep hold of, and took out a thick slip of parchment. Well versed in all types of parchment, she excelled at note-taking back at Beauxbatons and took them rapidly like a madwoman herself (maybe she and Oliver Wood had something in common), she had never seen anything like this: one side of Harry's face fanned the left side of the parchment, while the side of another face, one she didn't recognize, was on the right. They were staring at each other woodenly, blinking every several seconds. A dark purple sunset colored the space between them, and three hooped goalposts, shimmering in a brilliant gold, stood together like totem poles. Lettering, also in gold, bled over the parchment, reading: _The Final of the Four Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Quidditch World Cup_. A letter and number followed afterwards.

"You got me a ticket?" she asked, surprised.

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Not exactly," she shook her head. "But thank you." And she really was grateful that Harry went out of his way to get her a ticket, and this was even after the fact that she had heard the Quidditch Word Cup was sold out. Sure, though she told him last night that she hadn't intended to go to the game, she certainly wouldn't have turned down any offer that happened to pop up. And Harry brought up such an offer. Thus, she was inclined to take it.

"You'll be next to the Weasleys," he said, pointing to the ticket in her hand.

Staring back down at it, she looked over to the right-hand side. "Who's this?" she asked, indicating the thin and dark, sallow-skinned player with a curved nose and thick eyebrows.

Harry smiled though it was void of any humor. "Viktor Krum."

Taking back to the ticket, Hermione thought that Viktor Krum was rather good-looking, having never seen a photograph of him before. He had a natural ruggedness about him that made it seem as if he preferred a forest or mountainous terrain he'd no doubt comfortably settle into, as opposed to that of a life in a populous, brightly-lit city. But, attractive or not, he still didn't compare to-

The kettle whistled loudly behind Harry and he turned to prepare the tea. This was when Hermione was gifted with the most fantastic view she probably had ever seen: Harry's buttocks. It was round (because what set of buttocks weren't, no matter how big or small), but it was…well, what else could Hermione say…bubbly, looking like a shelf she could store the rest of her jars of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion on. (Merlin, help her.) Her breath quickened considerably as she tried with all of her might to tear her eyes away from them. She failed at this, and a second later, a certain warmth pooled between her legs. She felt her face burn as if she had just taken it out of a fiery furnace, the flames having licked her face.

"Here," he said, handing her a heavy mug.

"Thanks," she nodded, though she turned her head away from him lest he see her sunburnt face and start asking questions she had no intention of answering. She took a sip of her tea as Harry sat across from her, and gestured that she should help herself to some treacle tart. Taking a small bite of it, Hermione was flabbergasted to find that the treacle tart was actually edible, and dare she say, almost delicious?

"What's the verdict?" Harry asked her after taking a rather large mouthful.

"Not bad," she said. "It's quite good, in fact."

"I told you that I'm a great cook," he replied with a large smile.

"Please," she scoffed, and took another bite. Peeking over the table at Harry, Hermione saw that every time he shuttled a forkful of treacle tart to his mouth, the throw would slip off his shoulders, and while he chewed the desert, he took the time to reposition the throw back over himself. He looked as if he was trying his hand at a bit of modesty instead of the promiscuous display he had exhibited when he answered the door for her. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything," he nodded.

"Why do you not have a shirt on?" Hermione was waving her fork in the air in small circles even though her question had nothing to do with actual shapes. "I mean, I assume you wear one when you're alone, right?"

"I was in the shower just before you came over," he said simply.

"But it didn't look like it," she protested, her fork still in the air.

He shrugged. "Drying Charms aren't that difficult, you know."

Hermione had a stray thought then of if she should ask him to teach her how to properly cast Drying Charms, for she'd most definitely use such a spell between her legs right then and there. She wanted to smack herself for being so ridiculous.

"So I take it that you don't use the showers back at Puddlemere United's quarters?"

"Sometimes I do," he said. "But most of the time I don't."

"Any reason?"

"Not really," and he helped himself to another mouthful of treacle tart. She thought that this piece was much bigger than the first one he had had and reckoned he should be careful with the foods he ate for she was sure Viktor Krum would be in near-perfect shape for the Quidditch World Cup.

"Would you consider showers in the Quidditch complex necessary?"

"Sure," he nodded. "Just because I don't use them all that often doesn't mean other players don't. It's more than likely some use 'em all the time."

"Well, I guess that makes sense," and she took another sip of her tea. "I'll probably keep everything the same anyways."

"Including our passwords?" Harry asked.

"Maybe, but I just might have to put the painting of Joscelind Wadcock next to one of the toilets in the boy's loo."

Harry threw his head back and laughed, unaware that the throw completely slipped off his shoulders when he did this and pooled in his lap. Hermione wished she had a camera at that exact moment so she could take a photograph of Harry and the upper half of his body for it was too luscious to cover up. She then decided that the throw wasn't needed at all, and if he'd try to put it back over himself, she set it on fire to prevent him from doing so.

"She'd really hate you, then!"

"She shouldn't have thrown a Quaffle at my head," Hermione bit back. "And how ridiculous really, all because I didn't know her name!"

"You know, I was kinda surprised you didn't," Harry noted.

"Why?"

"How many times have you said that even though you're not a fan of Quidditch doesn't mean you're oblivious to it?"

"Enough," she grumbled. "But honestly, I heard a lot about Quidditch back at Beauxbatons from boys who could hardly tell their left hand from their right. And trust me, they weren't carrying around photos of famous Quidditch players in their school robes!"

"What about in the books that you read?"

"They barely had any pictures in them."

"Did you purposefully look for ones without any pictures?" Then without waiting for an answer, he said, "Something tells me you did."

"It was just a coincidence," she replied, taking another bite of her treacle tart. He snorted loudly at her and made to bring the throw back over his shoulders. Before she could stop herself, Hermione held up a hand and yelled, "No! Don't!"

He stilled with the throw already over his right shoulder with an attempt to bring it over his left. He gave her a curious look as if he was asked to take an examination that would test his nasal passages to see if they were still working as they should, and he ran across a smell he didn't quite understand and was trying his best to figure out. "What?" was all he said after.

For the second time that night, Hermione felt her face burn and quite literally at that. The problem was that her objection was completely embarrassing for her, as she was usually never at the receiving end of such a flambée facial, yet here she was. "Nothing," she said, shaking her head and taking her eyes back towards her treacle tart, of which only several crumbs were left. She tried to scoop them up with her fork but was unsuccessful.

"I thought you wanted me to put something on?"

_So he did hear what I said to him_.

"I did…I mean, I do," she corrected.

Harry set down his fork and said, "You're not making any sense." She was still trying to salvage her crumbs when he asked, "Do you want me to put something on or not?"

"This is silly," she exclaimed, setting down her own fork. She left her crumbs on the plate. "You can do whatever you want! It's your house, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but if you're not comfortable-,"

"I'm plenty comfortable and not at all," she interrupted. She saw Harry tilt his head to one side, looking completely lost. Hermione felt the need to explain and did.  
"Look, you have a body that is near perfect, and it caught me completely off guard. I mean, have you seen yourself in the mirror lately?" He began to reply but she cut across him. "Part of me wishes you didn't own any shirts at all, and another part of me wishes you owned every shirt England has to offer. It's just outrageous that you look like…well, that you look like that!" and she waved her hands in the air for emphasis. What kind of emphasis she didn't know.

"I'm still not sure what you're on about," he said.

She sighed loudly, banging her elbows on the table and throwing her head in her hands. Merlin, he was going to make her say it, even though she wasn't ready to! How did their conversation end up here when Harry initially invited her over for some treacle tart? Hermione cursed her visit and wished she had stayed at home with Benoît instead. At least he was easy to understand and at least he understood her, fully and completely.

Hermione took a deep breath, let it out, took in another lungful, and said, "I think you're attractive, okay? And I think I like you too." She pushed herself away from the table, parked her plate (crumbs and all) in the sink, turned around, and leaned back against the counter. She crossed her arms over her chest, cupping her elbows in opposite hands, and stared firmly down at the floor for she was unable to look at Harry, afraid of his reaction. "I like your messy hair, your eyes, and even your glasses. I like the fact that even though I'm positive you know you have a good body, you try and act like you don't. I also like that you choose to wear T-shirts and joggers instead of fancy dress robes like you're part of the British nobility." She paused here, and decided that she was too far in to pull out now. "You're clever, kind, and humble…what I didn't expect when I first met you. You were someone who was thrown into a life few, if any, would want, yet made the most he could of it by surviving the Killing Curse as a baby, and were able to defeat Voldemort years later. You've shown that you care for others, especially the Weasleys, and that you're capable of caring for people you don't know well, like when you healed my hand back in Diagon Alley the second time we met. You're clearly uncomfortable with how famous you are, that sheep herd asking you to sign their posters and your attitude when you saw that that Skeeter woman's new book on you being two examples, and I find that more than charming. And that's not even mentioning that you've gotten a bit nervous recently, and sure, that could be because of the Quidditch World Cup, but I kind of like that."

"Nervous?" he repeated, clearly puzzled. When she nodded, he asked, "When?"

"Yesterday when you said I can use Puddlemere United's hot tub, and just a couple of minutes ago when you handed me the ticket to the Quidditch World Cup."

Harry gave no indication he heard her, and she reckoned he asked for clarification on when he'd been nervous with her in order to buy him some more time to think on the information overload Hermione had unceremoniously dumped on him, finally revealing what she truly thought of him, and how her feelings had manifested ever since that fateful morning when the two of them had first met.

Hermione believed that she had liked Harry for quite a while now, but never truly entertained the possibility of actually dating him. She wasn't looking for love, and love wasn't looking for her. They were far away from each other like Pluto is from the sun. And though her parents usually gave her a bit of nudge to find someone suitable (_Life was never meant to be done alone_, was one of her mum's favorite sayings to her), their hopes for Hermione to eventually marry and have a family for herself wasn't apocalyptic if such a matter wasn't done the very next day. And thus, she felt like there was simply no need to rush into such important lifestyle changes, especially being as young as she was.

And though meeting Harry didn't change such thoughts she held onto very firmly, they did poke and probe her on if something could bloom just beyond the horizon of asking the right questions and receiving the right answers. Although, in Hermione's case, she hadn't exactly asked any questions, had she? Her confession to Harry was simply a revelation that she hadn't planned or prepared for, and it made her wonder if it actually made sense or if it was akin to how one-eyed trolls would speak, leaving Harry to decipher the message himself.

She chanced a look over at him and saw that he was staring down at his empty plate, it void of any leftover crumbs, his brow furrowed. He didn't look amused but instead was more uncomprehending than anything else. This made Hermione believe that she did, in fact, declared her feelings for Harry like a one-eyed troll and he had not understood her! If he happened to ask her to repeat herself, Hermione would Apparate back to her flat and curl under her bed sheets with Benoît, willing herself to forget this night had ever happened. And if that didn't work, she could produce a Memory Charm quite easily.

"Harry?" she said quietly, the silence between them too much for her to bear. "Are you okay?" She then took back her seat across the table and tried to look at him, needing some type of indication that he was, at the very least, alive. "Listen, if you're uncomfortable, then just forget about-,"

"I don't want to," he suddenly said, and Hermione broke off mid-sentence. "Not unless you want to take it back, that is." He finally met her eyes. "Do you?"

There wasn't any hesitation in her as she answered, "No, I don't want to take it back at all. I meant everything I said to you, and believed it, too."

Harry moved his plate out of the way, planted his elbows on the table, much like Hermione did earlier, entwined his fingers together, and rested his chin atop them. She thought that he looked like a puppy begging its owner for a treat. It was endearing, even though she didn't really like those pea-brained animals. "Have you known for awhile?"

"What? That I like you?"

He nodded his head.

"I guess, but I didn't pay much attention to it at first."

"Did it start that day I went to visit Ludo?"

"Probably," Hermione said, "and every time we met thereafter, my feelings for you just kept building."

"So why'd you try to ignore it?"

She managed to smile softly and sighed, "I really wasn't looking to be in any type of relationship when I moved here. I wanted to focus on my career because I believed it to be more important than anything else that was going on. And, for the most part, it worked for a couple of weeks until I met you."

"And everything fell apart?"

This made Hermione laugh a little. "Well, I wouldn't say everything fell apart. It was more like a restructuring process, in that some things took a higher priority than others, when before it was the other way around."

"Give me an example," he said.

Looking over at him, she told him, "Getting to know you better was one. Actually when I think about it, that was probably the only one that got shuffled around."

"From where to where?"

"From not being anything I remotely considered to the top of the list."

"That's quite a change," he acknowledged smartly.

"What can I say? You made any impression," she said.

"You know, for a while there, I thought it was more of a negative one."

"Why?"

"You just didn't seem all that interested in me," he shrugged. "Ron told me it was best to leave you alone."

"You talked to Ron about me?" she asked, entertained by the thought of it.

"He's my best mate," Harry responded. "I talk to him about a lot of things." He wet his lips and continued, "Anyways, he assumed that you weren't really my type and suggested I find someone who is."

"And what is your type exactly?"

"To be honest with you, I didn't know I had one really. But Ron made a point in saying that while I was at Hogwarts, I was more attracted to the more athletic birds, mainly those that played Quidditch."

"Like Ginny?"

"Her, and another girl that played Seeker for the Ravenclaw Quidditch team back at Hogwarts, Cho Chang."

Hearing a soft tapping against the window, Hermione looked over and saw that it had begun to rain, the drops pebbling the glass lightly. And off in the distance, a low thunder rumbled.

"How about now?" Hermione asked, taking back to Harry. "Are you still attracted to girls that play Quidditch?"

Smiling, Harry untangled his fingers apart, leaned across the table, and kissed Hermione on the lips. Caught completely by surprise, Hermione's eyes were wide as she stared at how close he was…and how good his lips felt against hers. They were soft and searching, navigating unexplored territory. Yet, underneath the careful investigation of his mouth over hers, Hermione could almost feel this feral need of his, lingering just beneath the surface but never fully taking control…or letting himself taking control of it. She supposed he wanted to be gentle with her, being that this was their first kiss, and he had no intention of scaring her off lest he wanted more, and Merlin knew she wanted more…a lot more.

That was why she was rather disappointed when he drew away much too soon, but she managed to keep her composure to ward off possible mixed signals Harry might interpret as she not wanting him to kiss her. Because she did want him to kiss her, and was happy he took the chance to.

Harry pulled away, grinning from ear to ear, and asked, "Does that answer your question?"

* * *

**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading.


	9. The Promise

**Living for Living's Sake**

* * *

Chapter 9: The Promise

* * *

It had been a week since Harry had kissed her, and it was certainly a long one at that. Actually, if Hermione was to be honest with herself, she figured she had dreamed the whole thing because it was very unlike her to be so forward, especially given the fact that she wasn't really expecting to be in any type of relationship when she moved back to England. Her confession was rather spontaneous as she didn't like to gamble when it came to her feelings over someone she didn't know reciprocated those same feelings. But, the risk paid off, and for that, she was happy, the most she'd been since leaving France.

At work, daydreams were like a Muggle bulldozer, running over things that she really had to concentrate on. Mr Bagman suspected that Hermione had finally gotten into the Quidditch spirit as the World Cup was now only a week away. (_I know you're fantasying about England winning the whole thing, but I do need these reports on my desk by the end of the day_, he told her once, and that was when he had caught her nearly drooling at Harry's Quidditch poster on the opposite wall.) However, he was only half-right, because even though she really was inundated in the Quidditch spirit, it wasn't because she was so fixed on England winning. It was because of Harry, and that he happened to play Quidditch.

She wasn't obsessed with him because Hermione believed that that was too strong of a word, but Harry had certainly derailed her usual train of thought like a guard who pulled excessively at the handbrake in a brake van. But, there was a dominant feature that taxied him to the front of everything else she had going on at the moment. Of course, she wasn't complaining in the slightest because thinking about Harry wasn't at all a waste of time. Perhaps it was even a better use of her time though truthfully, she was pretty busy as she usually was. And since she had guillotined all of her lunch breaks to half an hour, there simply was no excuse for her not to finish a day's worth of work. Well, that's definitely not taking into account that Harry's kiss was deposited hourly into her mental bank vaults, and they were quite full already.

Still, she was pleased that he had given her some space and time to think about what she really wanted out of a potential relationship with him because that was what she needed…to think. She didn't know if he did this intentionally or not as she imagined Oliver Wood was working up a storm during practices as time kept bleeding away from him until the Quidditch World Cup. She figured it was a bit of both since Harry wasn't all that dull (except when he went on and on about loaning money between the Department of Magical Games and Sports' divisions, only for each of them to pay each other back with interest tacked onto the bill), and maybe he needed some time himself to think about what came next.

Running through her pro and con list a dozen times, Hermione was well aware of the fact that the positives of dating Harry most surely outweighed the negatives. Also, her list was far more in depth than the one she had made of her former boyfriend back at Beauxbatons. She expected as much since both relationships were completely different from each other. Her former boyfriend relied more on academia to flirt through in conversations with her, and while interesting at times, she became rather bored after an hour or so of it. Yes, she favored academics above all else at Beauxbatons, but that didn't mean she wanted to continue living it once she left school. Harry, on the other hand, was like talking to a really good friend, something Hermione was rather poor in. But she never grew fatigued when talking to him even if they wandered over work and Quidditch-related topics. On top of that, Harry also genuinely seemed interested in what she had to say, while her former boyfriend considered subject matters dissimilar to academia wasted breath.

And Harry was very nice to her, finally seeing her own error in growing angry when he purchased the book _Quidditch Tragedies of the Nineteenth Century (includes Attack of the Killer Forest) _for her back in Diagon Alley. Besides it mostly being a fascinating bedtime read (as she hadn't yet finished it), she usually couldn't help but wonder if she'd been unfair to him because of it. Her Muggle-born status was very much maligned while she worked in the Ministère des Affairs Magiques de la France, and it never really occurred to her that a stranger in England could be and would be so welcoming. She was actually more than a bit surprised Harry decided to stick it out with her since their first meeting being that she tended to focus more on the negatives in practicality. She'd been told many times that she took the glass half empty rather than half full. And while that was probably true in every sense of the word, sometimes positivity simply didn't exist in logical reasoning, and she was one who thrived in such an environment. She just couldn't help herself, and reckoned it wasn't her fault either way.

Still, the prospect of spending more and more time with Harry excited her. Sure, she'd have to wait until the Quidditch World Cup was over, but she had grown fairly patient since leaving Beauxbatons. Instead of craving immediate results, she now understood that sometimes the best outcomes are worth waiting for. And maybe Harry would be the same. It wasn't like she was considering marriage or anything comparable, but if things ever did decide to wander down that path, she wouldn't rush it or curse such a path for being too long. She'd just take in the journey of it all, and hope that everything worked out for the best because that's all she could really do, right? It was living in every aspect that living entailed, and for the sake of living, she'd do it to the fullest.

* * *

Hermione was lost in _Quidditch Tragedies of the Nineteenth Century (includes Attack of the Killer Forest)_, captivated by Niko Nenad's volatile and unstable mannerisms, particularly troublesome since he was the Beater for the Romanian National Quidditch team and had a bat to use at his disposal. And a bat was what did him in as after he purposefully sent a Bludger flying into the nearby forest during the 1809 Quidditch World Cup, he was trampled to death by a violent spruce, and several others went right along with him. She didn't really expect any extravaganzas this time around though it was quite interesting that Bulgaria was involved in the upcoming World Cup against England.

"You haven't finished it yet?" Harry asked sitting down next to her and pointing at her book. "I got that for you months ago!"

"Excuse you, but I've been busy at the office," she told him a bit tartly.

"I thought that it was for some bedtime reading?"

"I missed some nights is all," she replied, and closed the cover. Her feet were blanketed in the water of a small river that slithered like a serpent across Harry's backyard in Godric's Hollow. Trees walled the other side of the water, and it was the privacy they provided that Hermione liked. The grass was short and comfortable to sit on which is why she had no problem in doing so, taking to her book and rereading past Quidditch World Cup controversies.

"What're you up to now?"

"The Tournament that Nobody Remembers," she said, watching him set out their lunch of steak and kidney pie between them.

"Oh, yes," he smiled and shook his head, "that one."

"Has everyone who plays Quidditch heard of it, too?" she asked. She distinctly remembered him telling her in Diagon Alley that everyone who plays Quidditch has heard of the Attack of the Killer Forest.

"Maybe, but it's not as well known. Pretty much what it is, is that even though the Quidditch World Cup had been set up for whatever year it was-,"

"1877," Hermione filled in for him.

"Yeah, 1877," he continued, "no one actually remembers it at all."

"No one?"

He shook his head. "But, an English Beater was missing half his teeth, some Canadian Seeker had his knees on backwards, and half of the Argentinian team was found tied up in the basement of some pub in Cardiff."

"Is there any idea of what happened?" She supposed her book would've told her just as much, but she knew that Harry liked talking about such things and so happily let him go on with what he knew about it.

"There's a few theories," he began, his eyes roaming upwards as if there was something interesting above him. Hermione looked, and confirmed that there wasn't anything there except half a dozen bouquets of swollen clouds. "The first is that the Goblin Liberation Front casted a Mass Memory Charm so that everyone just forgot about the Quidditch World Cup."

"That actually would make sense," Hermione said. "I read once that they were active in the 1870s. It matches up."

"Some people also believe that there was a Cerebrumous Spattergroit breakout."

"I believe that causes both memory loss and confusion, right?"

"If you ever get tired working for Ludo, I'm sure you'd do a bang-up job as a Healer at St Mungo's," he told her.

"Please," she scoffed and rolled her eyes. She then took a bite of her lunch.

"You read about the 1974 Quidditch World Cup yet?" Harry asked.

"No," Hermione shook her head. "What happened?"

"You don't mind being spoiled?"

She thought this was an odd question to ask being that he had already told her all about the Tournament that Nobody Remembers.

"Not at all," was her reply.

"Well, it all had to do with this bloke, Royston Idlewind. He was a Chaser for the Australian National Quidditch team, and was one of the reasons why Australia won the World Cup in '66. Anyway, during his time playing Quidditch, he was hit with hundreds of jinxes from witches and wizards in the stands."

"Bad ones?" Hermione interrupted.

"Nothing serious," Harry said. "The Broom Jinx, Impediment Jinx, and the Sea Urchin Jinx were the most common along with a few others. But, because of this, he hated large crowds at Quidditch events. In the early '70s, Idlewind was chosen as the International Director of the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee and passed some brutal regulations to try and manage crowd control."

"What kind of regulations?"

"The most severe one was the ban of all wands into Quidditch stadiums except those of officials."

Hermione gasped at this, dropping her fork in the river. "Oh, damn," she exclaimed, and used her wand to levitate it out of the water. Holding it in her hand, she asked, "I don't suppose you have a clean one, do you?"

Instead, Harry reached over and swapped forks with Hermione, giving her the one he was using, and taking the one she accidentally dropped in the river for himself. She was rather stunned that he did this, but he didn't seem as if he really knew what he was doing. She learned then that when Harry was talking about Quidditch, he was talking about Quidditch, and nothing could deter him until he was finished…not even a fork that had been dropped in the river.

"Fans weren't too happy about the ban and threatened to boycott the 1974 Quidditch World Cup. But they soon realized that empty stadiums were what Idlewind actually wanted, and because they didn't want him to get in a victory, they decided on something else."

"What was it?" She surprised herself to find this story enticing, and reckoned it was as good as the Attack of the Killer Forest. She had found that bit of history a little too gory for her liking.

"The Dissimulator," he said.

"The instrument?" she asked.

"You heard of it before?"

"Of course," she nodded. "It's made of multicolored tubes and makes loud cheering noises and puffs of smoke in a witch or wizard's national team colors."

"Yeah," Harry said, "that's what they used at the 1974 Quidditch World Cup. It was a match between Syria and Madagascar, and there was like three hundred thousand people there and all of them had Dissimulators. When Idlewind appeared in the Top Box, the Dissimulators made loud raspberries before turning back into the wands everyone had transfigured before entering the stadium. Because of this, Idlewind resigned right then and there, and Syria went on the win the game."

"So, did he retire then?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, but he told the _Prophet _after the 1994 Quidditch World Cup that he was right in trying to confiscate all wands at international matches due to the Dark Mark. The ban's still rubbish though no matter how he spun it." Harry sighed and said, "I just hope nothing goes wrong for the game next week."

Hermione looked over and saw that in the time Harry had finished his lunch, he managed to let his feet slide into the water next to hers. His empty plate was discarded beside him with nothing left on it except a shadow of crumbs, and his (her) fork hanging off the side like a plank on a Muggle pirate ship. He seemed content, relaxed even, but she knew this was only a façade. Underneath his black T-shirt and grey sweats, Hermione could almost sense his nervousness over the outcome of the game because the entirety of the proposed gala and Quidditch complex was riding on it. And she fully understood that the Quidditch complex was important to Harry (as it was to the rest of the participating teams in the British and Irish Quidditch league) since he was the only player on the English National team who could end the game. It was a lot to place on him, and Hermione felt bad because of it.

"Are you nervous about it?"

He glanced over at her. "You mean the match itself, or anything going wrong?"

"Well, if England loses, wouldn't that count as something going wrong?"

He considered her for a moment and shrugged, "I guess. I mean, if we do lose, Wood will probably put us all in St Mungo's before he checks-in himself."

"But it's still pretty even, right, between England and Bulgaria?"

"Depends on who you ask," he replied. "The _Prophet _is set on England, but I hear that local papers in Bulgaria are sure they'll win instead."

"Do you feel confident?" Hermione asked him.

"Kind of," he said, seesawing his head from side to side. "Although, Krum's a good player, a great one, actually. I'm sure he's been studying me as I've been studying him."

Hermione reached out and grabbed his hand. And like their encounter atop Haddon Hill, this was meant to be more supportive than romantic. Because even though they had confessed their interests in each other several days ago, Hermione didn't want Harry to get sidetracked on matters that could wait (and besides, she'd feel awful if she was the cause for Harry to lose his focus on winning the World Cup anyway). However, if he happened to bring up their supposed relationship, she'd certainly carry on with such a conversation. How could she not?

With her eyes on the river, Hermione was reminded of the Seine in Paris, and suddenly, an idea struck her. She didn't know how he'd respond to it, but she'd curse herself later for not asking him. And sure, he might assume she was asking him on a date, but Hermione believed it to be more of a kind of break, a rest of sorts before the game. One of her professors back at Beauxbatons always told his students that it'd be futile to study the night before his examinations. He reasoned that everyone should have studied in small increments the day of each lesson and their notes afterward. That way, any stress they might have because of the exams could thus be eliminated. Hermione tried this method and was surprised that it worked wonders for her even though she didn't put this into practice for her other classes. She supposed practicing for the World Cup and playing in it was cut from the same cloth.

"When do you leave for France?" she asked.

He wet his lips and said, "At least a day before the game, but Wood wants us there by tomorrow morning."

"To practice?" she guessed.

"Yeah, and to get a feel for the stadium. We'll take turns with Bulgaria."

She nodded and said, "I wanted to know if you are open to do something with me…something in France. Well, Paris to be exact."

Harry's brow arched upward. "What'd you have in mind?"

* * *

The Bateaux Mouches excursion drifted quietly across the Seine, carrying with it small ripples the river eventually swallowed whole. Hermione leaned into Harry's side and was comforted when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. They passed by the Grand Palais, its glass barrel-vaulted roof a fiery red. Hermione thought it matched the hair color of the Weasleys. The flag of France atop it danced in a warm breeze.

"Wasn't the top of that thing blue last night?" Harry asked.

"I think so," Hermione nodded. When it was, the Grand Palais looked like a winter fortress. "But I like the red better. It fits the season and all."

He scoffed lightly. "Like we should have another reason to feel warm."

"You still are, are you?" When he didn't reply, she said, "Well, you shouldn't be. Cooling Charms should've done the trick."

"Maybe it was the person who cast them."

"Excuse you, but Charms are a bit of specialty of mine."

"They are, are they?"

"Of course," she told him.

"Were you at the top of your year at Beauxbatons?"

"Of course," she said again, but this time she wasn't able to hold back her smile. "What about you? What were you the best in at Hogwarts?"

"Quidditch," he answered her without any hesitation.

"I mean classes," she clarified.

"Well, I was pretty good in Flying Class with Madam Hooch," he said. When she pursed her lips at him, he laughed and said, "What? I was!"

"How about classes that you had inside?" she pressed.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Really?"

He nodded. "I managed to get an Outstanding in my Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. Also, in fifth year, Ron and I set up a Defense club to teach anyone who'd want to learn more than we were during class."

"Did you have a bad professor?"

"That's one way of putting it," Harry said rather bitterly. He then showed her his right hand.

Hermione squinted at the fading red letters but still was able to make out what it said. "I must not tell lies," she read.

"It was lines my professor made me do in my first detention with her," he told her.

"And it was carved into the back of your hand?" Hermione was horrified.

"She wasn't a nice person."

"Who was she?" Hermione asked, outraged.

"Dolores Umbridge," he answered.

"That's totally barbaric!"

"Don't get too angry," he said, looking over at her. "She's currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban Prison for what she did to Muggle-borns."

"Do I even want to know what happened?"

Harry shrugged. "She headed the Muggle-Born Registration Commission during the war. It was set up to force Muggle-borns to register with the Ministry, and undergo interrogations into how they stole their magic from real witches and wizards." Hermione gasped aloud at this. "At the end of the day, many had their wands stripped and were arrested."

"How ridiculous!" Hermione exclaimed wildly, drawing the attention of an elderly couple in front of them. The woman stared at her coldly before turning back around.

"A life sentence seems far too painless for this Umbridge woman," Hermione said, though more quietly this time.

"I totally agree," Harry nodded. "She should've been given the Dementor's Kiss for all her troubles."

"No," Hermione said. "She should have to endure a term's worth of singing wood nymphs at Beauxbatons."

Harry laughed loudly at this as the old woman turned around once again. This time, however, her glare was fixated on Harry, and if looks could kill, the English National Quidditch team would surely be without a Seeker for the World Cup. If that happened, Hermione presumed Oliver Wood himself would die of shock.

They were then bathed in light bleeding out of the arched windows of the Musée d'Orsay as their boat crept past it. The clock towers on the building's façade told Hermione it was later than she expected. Because of this, she yawned into her hand.

"You tired?" Harry asked her.

"A little," she said. "You?"

"No."

"Really? Why's that?"

"It's all pretty exciting seeing everything here," he replied. "I've never been to Paris before."

"The countryside's better," Hermione said.

"Oh yes…I almost for that you don't like big cities."

"What can I say? They're all overcrowded."

"Is Beauxbatons in Paris?" Harry asked.

"No, it's in the Pyrenees Mountains," she said, and added, "near the border between France and Spain."

"A castle, right?"

She nodded, "And dozens of gardens and water features that surround the school. The grounds were magically formed from the mountainous landscape." She sighed. "It's all really beautiful."

"Sounds like it," Harry agreed. "I mean, Hogwarts is nice too being in the Scottish Highlands and all. I just never thought to take a look at the scenery around Hogwarts itself."

"Do you miss it?" Hermione asked. "Going to school?"

Harry raked his fingers over his chin and said, "Kind of. It's like part of me does and another part of me doesn't."

"Would you ever consider going back?"

"To what? Repeat my education?"

"Well, I was thinking more about teaching," she said.

"Teaching?"

"What about that Defense club you and Ron put together?"

"That was different," he waved off.

"But you liked it, didn't you?"

Harry seemed to consider this. "I guess I did," though he didn't sound completely sure of himself. "I never really thought about it before." Then after a moment, he asked her, "Why? Do you want me to give up my Quidditch career?"

"You can do whatever you want to. I was just curious."

The Bateaux Mouches took them by the Institut de France. Hermione stared up at its large dome, finding it captivating. In fact, she admired the entire institute thinking its two rounded wings resembled a sparrow about to take flight. During the summers whilst at Beauxbatons, she used to hog a bench on the Pont des Arts Bridge and simply stare at the building, forgetting about the book she brought with her to read. That was until rats started invading the bridge, and just as her luck would assume, they loved to congregate under the same bench as her.

"You know," Hermione began, "you never did tell me about Timothy Blenkinsop's rat tail."

"The password to get into Puddlemere United's quarters?"

She nodded.

He smiled and said, "Timothy Blenkinsop was a Puddlemere United supporter, and attended a game against the Harpies, the same team Ginny plays for. Because the teams are pretty big rivals, the Ministry expected crowd violence and confiscated all wands at the gates."

"So similar to Royston Idlewind?"

"Exactly the same," Harry nodded. "And like Royston Idlewind, many turned over fake wands, pocketing their own."

"Why are Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies rivals?"

"Wilda Griffiths was a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies but switched to Puddlemere United after she felt underappreciated by Gwenog Jones. Anyway, during the match, Wilda Griffiths suddenly disappeared and when she did, a riot broke out. Timothy Blankinsop was caught in the crosshairs of several dueling wizards and made out with a rat tail."

"And the team thought that it'd be appropriate to use that for a password?"

"The match itself was pretty famous," Harry defended, "or infamous depending on how you decide to look at it. It's also easy to remember given the circumstances."

"What happened to Wilda Griffiths?"

"No one knows," Harry said. "She was never found afterwards."

"Still?" Hermione asked, bewildered.

"Some people believe she was hit with a Memory Charm and banished to the Far East, most likely by a Holyhead Harpies fan. The Ministry's been searching for her but hasn't had any luck so far."

"That's awful," Hermione commented.

"It's terrible," Harry agreed. "That's why I'm hoping nothing like that happens at the World Cup. After all, at the end of the day, it's just a game, but there are people who take it too far."

"Do you think they'll confiscate wands at the game?"

"Probably not," he said. "After all, England and Bulgaria don't have the same type of animosity Puddlemere and the Harpies do. But I wouldn't be surprised if some type of skirmish broke out. Small ones, of course."

"I guess I'd better keep a lookout."

"It'd be good if you did."

Notre-Dame then loomed, the slits in the North and South towers like two pairs of tall, skinny eyes watching the Bateaux Mouches swim closer. The West Rose window haloed the tips of nearby trees while the portals of the Virgin, Last Judgment, and St Anne could be seen below the branches. Hermione remembered visiting Notre-Dame just yesterday with Harry. The weather was comfortable and nearing sunset, the sky washed in pink and yellow. After admiring the Point Zéro des Routes de France reference, they climbed the three-hundred and eighty-seven steps of the North tower, it enclosed in a tight, stone stairwell. They then took a narrow walkway to the South tower and up a corkscrew staircase to the viewing platform atop it.

They didn't say much then. The mere presence of the other was more than enough. And though it may have been uneventful, it was one of Hermione's favorite memories of her time with Harry. It all felt very domesticated like they were just another English couple visiting tourist attractions in Paris, the added weight of Harry's fame nonexistent. The simplicity of it all was very attractive to her, and she could almost sense that he felt the exact same. It felt intimate and personalized, a time where her feelings for Harry spiked considerably. And though she was lacking in the department of relationship experience (her boyfriend at Beauxbatons being the only blip on a defunct radar), she never felt closer to anyone else (other than her parents) than she did then. And it was on top of Notre-Dame that it happened.

"I finally was able to ask Ginny about that _Witch Weekly _article that claimed you fathered a child with one of the girls you dated."

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to know why she'd allege that you slept with her many times."

"What did Ginny say?"

"That a teammate told her," Hermione answered. "Apparently, when you're featured in _Witch Weekly_, their sales increase tenfold and it's not only Hogwarts-aged girls that buy them."

Harry rolled his eyes and said, "I can't wait for the time when someone else will come along and be front-page news of the _Prophet _and _Witch Weekly_. Maybe I'll be able to get a little privacy then." He shifted in his seat and curled his arms further around Hermione, drawing her closer to him. He kissed her temple softly. When he did, her body tingled as wasps of electricity stung her all over. Her heart fluttered and then went airborne. She felt weightless and her temple where he had kissed her was forever marked as private property. It was like a blanket on a cold night, tucking her in and protecting her. When she looked over at him, his eyes were like a hungry predator daring anyone or anything foolish enough to do her harm for he'd already staked his claim. "So far, you're the only person the papers haven't got any information on. It won't stay that way for long, but it's been nice."

"Why don't you think it'll last?"

"Because if England wins the World Cup, the first thing I'm doing is going over and snogging you in front of the whole stadium."

Hermione laughed, hiding her smile behind her hand. (The elderly couple was still in front of them and every now and then, she saw the old woman looking at them out of the corner of her eyes. Hermione supposed she thought she was being sly, but she really wasn't. It was more of a nuisance than anything else.) "And if England loses?"

He didn't hesitate when he said, "If England loses, the first thing I'm doing is going over and snogging you in front of the whole stadium."

The smile was still on her face when she replied with, "So, what you're saying is that no matter if England wins or loses, you're still going to kiss me regardless."

"Not just kiss, snog," he pointed out.

"And if I may, what is the difference between the two?"

"This is a kiss," he told her, and took her by surprise when he demonstrated what a Harry Potter kiss was like. It was soft and quick though his lips did linger on hers for a bit.

Taking the time she needed to recover (because she felt ticklish and maintaining a straight face was a near-impossible task), she then asked, "And a snog?"

He grinned and said, "It's a little more involved."

"You don't need to practice?"

"Here?" and he made a point to look around. "Probably not."

Disappointment fluttered inside her. "Why?"

"Because the woman in front of us looks to be ready to toss us overboard the next time we annoy her," he whispered.

"And you don't think a stadium-full of people will be annoyed, especially for the team that loses?"

"For them, that's just too bad because I won't really care one way or another," he said.

"Bit rebellious, aren't you?"

"I can when I need to be," and he smiled.

Excitement from fellow passengers drew their attention away from each other and to the Eiffel Tower. A thunderstorm of cameras flashed as a plump, middle-aged woman led an unnecessarily large stampede to one side of the boat to get a better shot. And while others stood on chairs, Harry and Hermione were the only two left seated.

Hermione had seen it several times before, taking a lift to the top for half of them, and was left more and more unimpressed with each visit. She didn't know why she felt like this and simply figured this fell under the _once was enough _category. She knew some Paris natives thought the same and wondered how many actually visited it. Sure, the Eiffel Tower was a staple of France and well-known across the world, but even then she thought there were better aspects of Paris than a single monument…one that was a magnet for tourists. Even her parents thought the same and conceptualized in her head that all of Paris was a tourist trap and believed the best parts of France dwelled outside its capital. This was the reason why her dad purchased a guide book that explored the deeper pockets of the country, and their travels to such places were memories she cherished above everything else. Maybe that was why Hermione favored the quietness of small villages rather than the hustle and bustle of major cities like London and Paris.

"I think you'll do great in the game," Hermione said.

"Good enough to win?"

"That's kind of difficult to answer considering I don't know how good Viktor Krum is."

"We're pretty even," he said, and sighed heavily.

The Eiffel Tower was slowly slipping by them now and cameras were still flashing noisily. Hermione even saw the elderly couple that had been sitting in front of them elbow their way to the front of the pack. The old woman even had the audacity of step on the toes of a little child. A blood-curling scream was emitted directly afterwards, making those nearby cover their ears. It reminded her of the peacock calling to its owner in the lifts of the Ministry the morning she was running late to work. For her part, the older woman took several pictures then simpered back to her husband who chose to remain in the back. They began making their way back to their seats but upon seeing Harry and Hermione, they took a detour (well, the old woman did by dragging her husband off the side – and he complained, in French, that she was due to yank his shoulder out of its socket if she kept pulling at him) and sat down far away from them, she dusting off her skirt as if there was dirt on it.

"I don't think she likes us very much," Harry commented, and he stretched out his legs in front of him. His shirt hiked up a bit and Hermione briefly caught the band of his grey boxer shorts. She was a little disheartened he hadn't thought to put on his oxford blue ones.

"Yeah, well we're likely to never see her again."

"Maybe her and her husband will be at the World Cup. They might even have a pair of seats directly in front of you."

Hermione snorted. "In that case, I'll make sure to blow some raspberries most of the game. Did you see the way she was looking at us?"

"We may have been too loud."

"That's ridiculous," she said. "It's not like everyone else around us is being quiet." And it was true. There were conversations that paraded about them, and quite a lot of them were in languages Hermione has never heard before. She figured it'd probably be similar to the World Cup. Not only were English and Bulgarian fans converging on the Dordogne Valley, but they were to be joined by witches and wizards from all over the world. Quidditch was a universal medium that rendered language barriers trivial as it was played the same everywhere else. And even though Hermione didn't understand why Quidditch was loved by so many people, the truth of the matter was that she didn't have to. It was a popular sport and that was that.

Of course, for the British and Irish Quidditch League, there was a lot more to it than that. The gala was one, and the Quidditch complex was the other. Hermione also had a stake to claim with Harry snogging her in front of the whole stadium if England won, or Harry snogging her in front of the whole stadium if England lost. She definitely preferred the former option than the latter (especially if Harry spelled out a little bit of honesty in that if they did happen to lose, Oliver Wood would personally see to it that everyone player on the team would have a nice little stay on a ward at St Mungo's), but Harry snogging her was a win-win situation no matter how she looked at it.

So, with that in her head, Hermione once again leaned against Harry, and he easily supported her weight. And just like before, their contact bordered on affectionate. She supposed others on board the Bateaux Mouches might think they're lovers. They were in a way, sure, but in another way, they really weren't…not yet, at least. They had only known each other for a couple of months, and Hermione figured that that was too short of a time to have made a decision on love. But her feelings for Harry were there, and she knew that his feelings for her were also there. She would like if something more came out of these feelings they had for each other, but for now she was content to let it be.

With the Eiffel Tower behind them, nightfall crept over the horizon. Hermione glanced up at the stars and thought she saw something flying well above them. She wasn't sure what it was because when she blinked once, it was gone. She might've imagined it, whatever it was. Maybe it was some type of omen for things to come at the World Cup. Whether it was good or bad would be determined when England met Bulgaria…when Harry played against Viktor Krum.

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**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please let me know what you think with a review. Thanks for reading.


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